


Prompts

by TwilightDeviant



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Domestic, Episode Related, Established Relationship, F/M, First Aid, First Kiss, Post-Series, Pregnancy, Season 2 AU, finale AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2018-09-26 09:30:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 91,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9883061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwilightDeviant/pseuds/TwilightDeviant
Summary: A collection of unrelated Flynn/Lucy prompts requested on my tumblr.





	1. Mothership

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: "Can you maybe fill in how the trip went with Flynn in the Mother Ship? I hate how they completely skipped over that bit!" In reference to the finale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This begins after Flynn and Lucy drop off Ethan Cahill and make their way to the Mothership to return to the present.

“So where is the _Mothership_?” Lucy questioned. She watched the city blocks of Washington D.C. become less condensed. Buildings turned wider and hollower, being less for bureaucracy and more for industry.

“Warehouse,” Flynn said, “like your _Lifeboat_.” He braked at a stop sign, and while other cars rolled by, he pointed ahead at a tall, abandoned building. “Right over there.” His accented English strung the short sentence together like one long word.

“We can walk from here,” Lucy decided. “Pull over.” Flynn was displeased with the idea of walking two blocks they did not have to. “We stole this car,” she told him. “It might be nice if we leave it in the open where, I don’t know, the owner or the- the police can find it. Right?” She opened her door and got out, giving him no choice.

Flynn huffed and pulled the car closer to the curb. He joined her on the sidewalk, and they made their way towards the indicated building. Lucy’s high heels tapped the concrete with each step. Flynn’s gait was noiseless beside her.

“You know,” he said, rupturing the silence between them, “if your plan works, this could be your last visit to the past.” He moved in closer as they crossed the street together. “Will you miss it?”

Lucy shook her head. “It won’t be the last,” she stated, defiant. “I’m getting my sister back, no matter what anyone says. 1979, U.C. Berkeley, I’m going to make sure my parents meet.”

“And after that?” he questioned. Flynn did not apologize for his role in Amy’s disappearance, however unintentional his actions were. He did not take the opportunity to claim that Lucy was no better than him, knowing she would steal a time machine if someone stood in the way of her goal.

“Then,” Lucy replied, speaking slowly as she realized it, “I guess... that’s it.”

“Will you miss it?” he asked again.

Lucy had to think on her answer. “We have been through so much pain and so much hell,” she said. “It’s hard. It’s one thing to- to... _read_  about The Alamo or _The Hindenburg_  or, god, Nazi Germany, but to be there, to see people, good... people die, it’s... hard.” There was undoubtedly a better word, but why use it when that one did the sentiment justice? “I’m tired.”

They shifted from sidewalk onto grassless and uneven mounds of dirt. Flynn held out his hand as offered balance to a woman in heels, but Lucy forewent the gesture. She could manage. Flynn returned his hands to behind his back. “You’ll miss it,” he answered for her, helping her decide, “not today, not even after you’ve saved your sister, but someday.”

“Yes,” Lucy agreed, “but maybe I need to. Maybe... history should stay in books, free from influence, free from... observation even. We know exactly what we should. Maybe I need to be satisfied with that.”

Flynn pulled back the heavy metal door of the warehouse. He gestured for Lucy to enter, ladies first, and closed the door behind them.

Emma was sitting in an old chair, nearly rusted through and barely holding her insubstantial weight. “How’d it go?” she called from across the room.

“Start the machine,” Flynn ordered. He refused to address the failure of his mission, even if his loss was deliberate.

“Hello again,” Emma greeted Lucy. She looked from her to Flynn. “Was this part of the plan?”

“New plan,” Flynn muttered, giving no more information than was necessary for her role. “Just start the machine.”

Emma left them and climbed up into the _Mothership_ , dutifully obedient. They followed right behind, and Flynn took one last look around at the warehouse and at 1954, a place and a time to which they could never return. Never again could he retry the mass assassination he abandoned for Lucy, not in this year. He let it all go and looked up into the pristine white shell of the ship.

“You first,” Lucy said, knowing she would not present a very modest image as she climbed into the _Mothership_  wearing a skirt. Flynn nodded and pulled himself up through the door. Lucy put her hand all over the sleek curves of the machine until she could find a good handhold. “It’s a little... higher,” she commented, being accustomed to the size and slopes of the _Lifeboat_. Flynn reached down and put his hand under her arm to pull her in the rest of the way. His grip was strong and firm, and Lucy had no fear he would drop her.

“Ready when you are,” Emma said. The door closed and sealed them in for the ride.

“Sit down,” Flynn told Lucy, and he pointed at the chair across from his, the same seats they had occupied on the trips from 1780 and to 1893. He buckled himself in.

Lucy sat in her seat and pulled the complicated harness out from behind her back. She stuck her arms through and attempted to fasten herself in. It did not work. “One minute,” she asked, knowing they were waiting on her. “I’ve just... never been very good with these.” Her fingers fumbled over the complicated straps and buckles of the _Mothership’s_  harness. She yanked off her powder blue gloves. Flynn sighed and released himself. He leaned forward to help, but Lucy swatted him away. “I’ve got it,” she insisted. “Just give me a minute.”

“You let me buckle you in before,” Flynn reminded, drawing unpleasant attention to when he kidnapped her.

“Well... yes,” Lucy said, “but I was wearing a corset then or tight sleeves or—” She continued trying to force the bulky and complicated clasp into place, but she quickly gave up after so many failed attempts. “Fine,” she relented, “just do it.” She put her hands out to the side as if Flynn had a gun on her and she surrendered. Control of the harness was his, given up before she embarrassed herself further.

Flynn’s long fingers worked with such ease but strength and command. Effortlessly, he pushed the clasp together with a click. Lucy averted her eyes as he tightened the straps, securing her, protecting her. She felt but did not see each belt as it was pulled by his hand and brought closer in against her body. Flynn fell away from Lucy and back into his seat. “She’s in,” he told Emma. It took him no time to buckle himself again. He had ridden through so many trips. The seatbelt was stuck on and creased with his measurements. He fastened them together with quick clicks.

The machine whirred. It moved. It surged. It stopped. Travel in the _Mothership_  had been more perfected, and Lucy often envied the improvement, especially after going back to the _Lifeboat_.

Flynn unbuckled his harness, but trusted Lucy to handle herself. She could, of course. Opening the thing was always much easier. Flynn jumped out of the machine and pushed a wheeled staircase up to the door to facilitate an easier exit for Lucy. She walked down the steps.

One look and it was clear she was inside Flynn’s current base of operations. It was more barren than the church had been, and it seemed every time Flynn moved, he was forced to leave behind equipment, taking only what was necessary.

“Wow,” Lucy said as she looked around. “I was expecting... I don’t know, being dropped off somewhere.” She phrased it like a question because she could not believe it was not the answer.

“I’m trusting you with my family, Lucy,” Flynn emphasized. “I trust you... with my location.” He walked to a desk and grabbed a set of keys. “It goes to the car right over there,” he told her, and he gestured to a black SUV, one of three. He gave her the keys. “You’re free to go. We’re about an hour, maybe two, from San Francisco, but I’m sure you’ll use the ride to clear your head, organize your thoughts.”

Lucy nodded. She took the fascinator out of her hair. “Got a change of clothes?” she asked, feeling sixty years behind trends. It would ordinarily be a ridiculous request of the man, but he had a woman on his team now.

“Emma?” Flynn called.

“Give me a minute,” she replied, and she departed for whatever corner in which she kept her things.

Flynn and Lucy stood in the center of a colossal building with high ceilings and distant walls. Yards of space were around them and above and yet only two feet of it was between them. They were close. They waited on the edge of worry and apprehension. They waited for their plan to fail.

“Let’s hope your grandfather came through for us,” Flynn said, and what should have sounded like optimism instead cast itself as a cause followed by eventual effect. He would have a new plan once theirs was properly mourned and subsequently forgotten, buried in a graveyard of thought and hope like all the others.

“I hope so.” Lucy’s shoes clicked against the floor as she fidgeted. “If this doesn’t work,” she promised, “I won’t stop. I’ll help you... Flynn, and we will get your family back.” She would not betray the faith he placed in her down in that basement, beneath the feet of those people responsible for so much pain and suffering. “I’ll come back to you— here. And we’ll keep- we’ll keep trying, for however long it takes.” Lucy felt responsibility for this man’s happiness, that concept which she jeopardized. But more than that, she knew Flynn would not stop until he succeeded. She would assist him, supervise him, and minimize his effect on history.

“Thank you, Lucy.”

Her hand hesitated, possessed by an idea that a spoken farewell was inadequate. It hovered between them, occupying that small space. Her fingers touched his lapel and spread onto his chest, slipping over the fabric until her palm pressed against him. They each stared at her trespassing hand, hyperaware of its touch.

Lucy looked up into sad green eyes. Slowly, she raised her hand and placed it upon his cheek. Flynn’s eyes fluttered shut. He breathed deeply but remained still against the kind and gentle contact.

“Should I come back?”

Lucy took away her hand. Flynn retreated from her, distancing them. He would not look at Emma. “Just... give her the clothes,” he murmured. He would not look at Lucy. “You can change in there.” He pointed across the warehouse to a unisex bathroom.

“Thank you,” Lucy said. She took a few steps before turning about and marching right back. “Uh, my phone number,” she remembered, “for when... we need to, you know, talk... later. I don’t have my phone on me right now, of course, but—” Flynn took his smart phone from his 1950s suit pocket. “Of course,” she sighed. Lucy recited her number, and he keyed it into his phone. “If you’ll... tell me yours,” she said, “I’m sure I’ll remember it until I get home.” Flynn grinned and said the numbers to her, in no way doubting her fantastic memory.

After she finished changing, Lucy saw no sign of Flynn. If he was sulking, it was to be expected. If he was hiding, she would not seek. If he was busy, she would not distract. She twirled the carkeys around her finger and into her palm. She took the car Flynn loaned her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodness I love toeing that line of romanticism between these two. Just a little dab.


	2. Caught

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: “We weren’t supposed to get caught.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Maybe this wasn’t supposed to be as dark as I ended up making it...
> 
> Don’t try and make me give you anything resembling a timeline for this. I have no idea when it’s happening. It just is. AU, sure. Imagine the structure and hierarchy of 1.14, except drawn out and lasting so long this happened.

“Do you have any idea,” Agent Neville irritably remarked, “how long it’s going to take to search the fifty square miles in and around Los Angeles?”

“No,” Flynn replied, voice barely above a whisper, “but I’ll just... wait here while you find out, hmm?” He laughed and it sounded painful. “But that will only be if I don’t... kill you first... bastard.” His threat was impotent. The words were wet with the blood pooling in his mouth and the trail of it dripping from his nose. His arms were pulled behind his back and around a chair. Every time they hit him, the movement jerked and wrenched his stationary arms, held in place by a pair of metal handcuffs.

“Tell us where you stashed the _Mothership_ ,” Neville ordered.

Flynn spat blood and it splattered on the floor and splashed onto the man’s shoe. “Or what… you’ll hit me?”

Neville nodded his head, and the Rittenhouse agent standing beside Flynn hit him in the chest with a closed fist. Flynn wheezed and grunted. He recovered— or he pretended to so that he might deny them satisfaction to his pain.

“Stop!” Lucy exclaimed. “Just stop, okay? He... is never going to tell you.” She flinched with every fruitless blow they dealt him, and she did not know how many more she could witness. But she would not turn away. If Flynn looked at her, she would be there to meet his gaze. She would be a support, a point upon which to focus.

Agent Neville moved from Flynn’s chair to stand in front of Lucy’s. He regarded her for a moment, sizing her up with an unpleasant and probing stare. He slapped her across the cheek with the back of his hand. Flynn growled and nearly toppled his seat in an attempt to charge the man. He was forced back down by strong, cruel hands, making all four legs of his chair touch the concrete floor again.

“You’re in your own heap of trouble, Miss Preston,” Neville said. “Colluding with a wanted fugitive… That makes you a traitor. I can’t imagine you’ll receive a light sentence once I file my report.”

“I am not a traitor,” Lucy objected, and she now understood why Flynn took such offense to the term.

“If you didn’t want us to think that,” he criticized, “maybe you shouldn’t have allowed yourself to be caught with a terrorist and your clothes off.”

“Obviously, we weren’t supposed to get caught,” Lucy scoffed. The eye contact Neville tried to force made her uneasy, especially after what the man walked in on. Lucy knew she should be strong and obstinate, but it was too easy to drop her gaze to the floor. “How did you find us?”

“Flynn here evaded the hotel’s security with all the training the U.S. government wasted on him,” Neville said, “but you should have realized we’d be keeping tabs on you, too. Agent Christopher had people watching outside your house. You didn’t think we’d do the same?”

It was foolish of her to think otherwise. If she and Flynn made it out of the situation, Lucy would no doubt receive a derisive lecture on her lack of stealth. After weeks of successful clandestine meetings, they were caught, and it was her fault.

“Tell us where the _Mothership_  is,” Neville commanded of her.

“I don’t... know,” Lucy told him, emphasizing her ignorance. Truly, she did not know. She met Flynn at a hotel halfway between Los Angeles and San Francisco. She had no more specifics to its location than Rittenhouse.

“We all know Garcia Flynn does not leave this building alive,” Neville said. He did not act out the fallacy of due process for them. They were not in a police station or government office. Nothing here was by the books. Rittenhouse would not allow Flynn to be taken alive. There was a reason for the kill on sight order. “There’s no reason for you to join him.”

Flynn was silent at her side. Either he trusted Lucy to handle herself or he did not want to betray how deeply the threat affected him.

“My father,” Lucy uttered, loathing the fact that she was forced to play such a card. “My father is Rittenhouse. Benjamin Cahill, he’s in charge... of the time machine project. If he knows what you did—”

“Your father has no idea you’re here,” the man said. “And if your partner over there decides to let you die, well,” he chuckled, “what’s one more murder pinned on Garcia Flynn?”

“I don’t _know_  where the _Mothership_  is!” Lucy yelled. “You can ask me over and over, and I still won’t know. You can hit me, you can threaten to kill me, and I still… won’t… know.”

“I’m not threatening you for you,” Neville dismissed. “I’m doing it for him.” He nodded at Flynn then turned to speak at him. “Tell us where the _Mothership_  is… or Miss Preston becomes another casualty, another woman dead… because of you.”

Flynn screamed at him. He rattled his handcuffs and shook his chair. The threat for Neville’s death was implied and did not need repeating.

The man at Flynn’s side hit him again to force compliance. A blow to the temple and Flynn went still. His head lolled and hung heavily from his neck, down against his chest. He did not move. He did not speak. He did not move. Breath was imperceptible. He did not move.

“Ah, hell,” Neville groaned. “Tell me that didn’t just kill the bastard.”

“Flynn?” Lucy softly spoke. “Flynn?” He did not move. She pulled on her handcuffs, but she could not free herself and go to him. “Garcia?”

“Check him,” Neville ordered.

The guard bent over Flynn and put his fingers on his pulse. He waited for a moment, assessing. “He’s ali—”

Flynn’s head picked up. His arms came forward. With his left hand, he grabbed the agent’s wrist. With his right, he reached inside the man’s jacket and pulled out his gun. Flynn fired two shots into his chest at point blank range. The attack was so sudden and unexpected, no one reacted as fast as they should have. Flynn shot the second guard behind him.

Agent Neville pulled his gun, but before he could fire, Flynn got him in the hand. The weapon dropped on the concrete floor with a clatter. Flynn shot him again in the leg and he went down. He approached the man and stood over him, pistol aimed at his chest.

“Lucy?” Flynn inquired, not sparing a glance to her. He stared at Neville on the floor.

“I’m fine,” Lucy said. She was unharmed. “I’m all right.”

“You know,” Flynn said, somehow managing to sound casually informative despite everything going on, “you’d be... surprised how easy it is to break a thumb and slip out of a pair of handcuffs.” The thumb of his left hand was bent unnaturally towards the palm. The handcuffs dangled from his right wrist, a backdrop to the gun he held. “Especially,” he laughed a hissing, wheezing laugh, “when you have, uh, so much else,” he pointed at his face and at his chest, his arms, “to distract from you doing it.” He sniffed, disturbing the wet and drying blood beneath his nose. “Barely felt it.”

Neville glared at Flynn, then he acknowledged his situation and changed tactics. “You want information,” he offered, “about Rittenhouse. I’ll tell you everything I know.”

Flynn hesitated. The gun wavered in his hand. He reclaimed its control. “Lucy?” he consulted. He would act on her judgment.

“Rittenhouse promotes through bloodlines and loyalty,” she said. “The higher up someone is, the more they know.” She condemned a man to death by saying, “But he will never tell you any of it.”

“She’s lying,” Neville shouted. “I’ll answer any question I can.”

“Maybe she’s wrong,” Flynn allowed, giving the suggestion merit, “but if I let you live, you walk out that door and back to your… pathetic life working for them. You might even consider making Lucy’s life hell after what happened today. You might arrest her, like you said. See,” he explained, “I need Lucy right where she is, working inside Mason Industries, not on the run, not another ‘terrorist.’ So,” he cocked the gun for dramatic effect, “since you… agent, are the only surviving witness of mine and Lucy’s, uh, meeting…“

Lucy closed her eyes and did not watch when the gun went off. She should not have been glad to hear the sound.


	3. Cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: “You know, it’s okay to cry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This contradicts my headcanon that Flynn bought Lucy’s red dress when they got to 1893. The things we change when it’s convenient.

There was a knock on the door, the only door of a small, windowless room. Bare knuckles beat thrice on thick wood.

“I’m still not ready!” Lucy shouted. There was a mess of clothes and accessories strewn about her. The dress Flynn obtained was draped over a table, but it was so long that it still swept the dusty church floor with its hem.

The door opened despite her answer. Flynn did not make a show of covering his eyes, but he kept them courteously closed. “What’s taking so long?” he demanded.

“I don’t… exactly wear 19th century clothes every day,” Lucy told him. She knew exactly how they were made and what styles and materials they should be made in. That did not make her an expert in wearing them. Flynn was lucky with his masculine attire. It was a vintage style of suit, but little had changed in over one hundred years. His outfit was simple. It was straightforward. It was put on and buttoned up, making him appear quite dapper. Lucy’s clothes were much more difficult by comparison. “And, obviously, I can’t,” she sighed, “I cannot tie a corset myself.”

Flynn frowned. “What was wrong with the one you had on?”

“A century outdated,” Lucy criticized. She would wear a modern bra on occasion, but some fashions could not transcend time. “And it won’t go with the style of dress.” Between the 18th and 19th centuries, corsets became smaller and more concealed. Wearing her previous one would cause bulky lumps in her new form fitting dress. “Why did you get all of this if you didn’t expect me to wear it?”

He did not respond to such banal, conversational questioning. “So forget the corset.”

Lucy was not insecure about her figure, not horribly so, but if she was dressing up nicely, she wanted straight, enviable lines. “Tie it for me?” she requested. Flynn made an exaggerated huff. “You can open your eyes,” she permitted, stopping him from looking so ridiculous as he stood there sightless with arms behind his back. It made him vulnerable in a way she could not even take advantage of. The room had no large or heavy objects she could weaponize. “I’m not dressed, but I’m not…” She had on a white linen slip, which was plenty enough modesty for their era.

Flynn opened his eyes and looked at her. He was immediately displeased by her lack of progress. “What the hell have you been doing this whole time?” he sneered.

“Uh, makeup,” she said, “for starters. And all in a small little… compact.”

“I got you the only mirror I saw in the store,” he stated. “I don’t _care_  if it’s perfect. Just get dressed.”

Lucy glared at him and snatched her new corset off the table. It wrapped around her and was fastened with clasps in front. She adjusted it to the correct position and let it rest just over her breasts, pushing them up slightly. Her hair was not very long, but she pulled it over her shoulder to get it out of the way. “You just—”

“I think I can tighten laces.”

“No,” she argued, “you can’t.” Flynn had a wide array of knowledge, but, “It isn’t a shoe. Just… start at the middle, and then you can… work your way in from top and bottom.” He was intelligent, and she assumed he needed no instruction past that. He did not. Lucy felt a proper enough method of operation go down her back.

Flynn pulled the strings and pulled them a second time when Lucy said to make it tight and authentic. He yanked the laces as if it was his new and favored method of passive aggression. Lucy was jerked back on the more forceful tugs.

“Stay still,” Flynn ordered, saying it as though he did not realize the disparity of their strength.

“It’s not my fault,” Lucy said in her defense. To clarify that she was speaking about something other than the unwanted movement, she continued, saying, “I’m sorry, but I… I couldn’t let you kill a little boy. Did you really think I would? Did you think I would stand there and be an accessory to…” She did not complete the horror of her question, but she knew Flynn was not going to answer either way. “You lost your family,” Lucy said. “I understand that.”

“I didn’t… lose them,” Flynn hissed. He pulled the corset string especially tight, and Lucy gasped. He went easier with the next row. “They were taken from me, by Rittenhouse, and I’m going to get them back.” He tied a bow into her laces and stepped away. “Get dressed.”

Lucy picked up her dress and studied it. “Just where are we going?” she questioned. “When? What are you planning to do?”

“1893,” Flynn answered, “and you’ll find out the rest when we get there.”

Lucy slipped the dress over her head and began fastening it in the front. She was grateful to not need assistance for it. “You know,” she said for the express purpose of being contrary, “the hat you’re wearing wasn’t widely popularized in America yet. I’m assuming we’ll be in America.”

“I don’t _care_ ,” Flynn said, enunciating each syllable to convey his extreme indifference. “It’s close enough.” He did not share Lucy’s zeal for historical accuracy.

The bottoms of the dress’s sleeves buttoned to give a lovely outline of her forearms. Lucy let her fingers trace over the soft velvet around her wrists. “The jewelry is… lovely,” she commented. Flynn had picked an ornate brooch and sparkling earrings. She fixed the brooch onto her collar but would wait on the earrings until after she styled her hair. “The ring’s sort of plain.” It was a simple silver band.

“For your left hand,” Flynn said, and he wiggled his own finger to explain what he meant. His wedding ring glinted in the room’s low light.

“Oh.” Lucy did not know how she felt about such a ruse. It was very forward of Flynn to presume she would accept a fake marriage with him and without being consulted first.

“What is it you and Wyatt do?” he questioned.

“Uh, siblings mostly,” she said. “You know, brother/sister.”

Flynn considered the suggestion. “That works, too,” he decided.

Lucy shook her head. By all accounts, marriage was a better cover for a man and woman traveling together in the past. “Look, I’ll play along if it comes up,” she said, “but I’m not wearing the ring.” If it became necessary in some way (and sometimes it did), she could pretend, but she did not want people assuming.

“Fair enough.” She did not know his opinion on a false marriage between them, especially not with his current feelings, but there was something to be said about the fact that he suggested it in the first place.

The feminine boots Flynn bought her were sitting in the floor. Lucy bent over to grab them, but the corset’s boning only let her get so far. She flexed her fingers, trying to reach. “I probably should have…” She strained. “Maybe I…” She gave up the reflex to bend herself in half and instead knelt down in place. Lucy grabbed them and stood back up. “I don’t know if I can…” She held up the boots then looked down at her feet.

“Sit down,” Flynn commanded. He was irritated that despite her many accomplishments, Lucy could not dress herself. She was not embarrassed by the shortcoming, however. The clothes were unnecessarily complicated. “Sit,” he said again when Lucy acted too slowly for his liking.

There was an old wooden chair that creaked and groaned when Lucy sat in it. She cleared her throat, raised the bottom of her skirt, and lifted her foot from the floor. Flynn knelt in front of her. He rolled knee high stockings up her calf, and if it were anyone else, Lucy would not have allowed the obtrusive act. Flynn, however, did not even seem to notice she was a woman. He did not acknowledge the implications of what he did. He put her stockings on like it was any other impersonal job, and he spared it only the bare minimum of his attention.

He grabbed one of the shoes and rested its sole against his angled thigh. Lucy stuck her foot inside and tried not to think of the story of Cinderella. “Push against me,” he said, trying to force her foot and ankle into the narrow opening. Lucy grabbed his arm for leverage, and Flynn hissed. “Damn it, Lucy!” he barked at her. “I was just shot there.”

Now that he said something, Lucy remembered the bloody slit she had seen in his 1780’s coat. “I’m sorry.” She moved her hand higher up his shoulder.

They pushed against each other, and Lucy’s foot slipped into the shoe. Flynn began fastening the dozen or more buttons on the side.

“It was close,” she spoke, filling a resentful silence. “The bullet, the... musket ball.” She gestured at his arm, a target mere inches from his chest. “You could have died, Flynn.”

“Wyatt got closer than that,” he muttered.

“You know,” Lucy said, unsure of how macho Flynn thought he had to act, especially in front of her, “it’s okay to cry.” He scoffed but said nothing in reply to such a silly permission. “You could have died,” she said again, not letting him dismiss it, “and for what?”

Flynn threw her leg away from him. “For my family!” he snarled. “The people that you, Lucy, let die all over again.” His anger would not dissipate. “Maybe there is a time and there is a place for tears, maybe.” He did not deny their clarity. “But it isn’t now. There’s too much work to be done.”

“It isn’t now?” Lucy challenged. “Not now? Not when you- you almost died— twice! Rittenhouse could have _killed_  you… and Wyatt. He would have. He would have if Rufus didn’t save you. And then? And then after that you… lost a chance to save your family when you were closer than you’ve ever been. You think I’ve,” how dramatic he was, “betrayed you… for not letting you kill a child. If it was me… If it happened to me, I couldn’t…” Her eyes felt heavy on his behalf. “I couldn’t.”

Flynn sniffed. “I’m not you.” He already carried so much, more than she did, more than he thought she could. He was hardened by it. He was stronger than her. “I’m not you.” Flynn did not look at Lucy, concentrating instead on her other boot. He popped the buttons and opened it as widely as he could. Lucy waited for him to place it against his thigh, like the other one, so they could put it on.

She waited.

Flynn’s shoulders shook. Lucy could not see his downturned face over the brim of his hat, but there was no mistaking the telltale sound which escaped around it. Flynn sniffed again. He sobbed, but he strangled it, choked it, before maturation. What a pitiful noise it was, wanting to express itself but being subdued by oppressive and obligatory strength.

Lucy encouraged emotion, but sitting before the realization of it did paralyze. Did she address it? Did she try to console it? Flynn was not her, as he said, but she knew what she would want in his place.

With slow and gentle hands, Lucy touched the brim of his hat and removed it. The action was permitted. She placed it on the table beside her.

Flynn covered his weeping eyes with long fingers. “It would have been over!”

“I know you wanted it to be.”

“It would have… It…” He rubbed his eyes.

Knowing he could quickly and easily slap her hand away, Lucy took a gamble and reached for his face. She caressed his cheek and touched his hair. She moved her hand to the back of his head and pulled him forward. Flynn allowed himself to be led until his face rested against her thigh. He kept his hand over his eyes. Lucy knew what he was doing, but he did not want her to see.

“It would have been over,” he said, a muffled whisper against her leg. Lucy did not continue arguing the legitimacy of that statement. It was not what Flynn needed to hear right then, and she was not cruel enough to say it anyway. She was not so stubborn. “You let Rittenhouse live.” It was so easy for him to blame her. Perhaps he needed to. If the role of his conscience was delegated to her, Flynn was released from it and left to behave in any way he chose. He could try to separate them, but the doubt she submitted would only ever be his own thoughts given words.

“I saved a child.” That was the perspective Lucy chose to see. John was a boy. Maybe he went on to do everything Flynn accused him of, but maybe he became his own man. They would never know. Flynn would never be proven right but neither would Lucy. They knew that.

Finn sobbed again, and it was a tight moan he did not hamper. The sound was pure heartache, torn straight from his chest. It was pitiful to watch. It was agony to know such a sight could occur naturally in their world, that it was not an embellished fiction. A nearly broken man laid upon her lap and wept.

Lucy petted his head but spoke no more, argued no more. It was all right to cry. She let him.

Her pale fingers brushed through Flynn’s dark hair. He would have to comb it again, but the benefit of tender touch outweighed that quick chore. He did not care. Lucy gave him kinder contact than he had experienced in months, perhaps years, and it was accepted.

Gradually, he wound down. His cries became quieter. His body shook less. Flynn picked his head up and Lucy let him go. She grabbed a white cotton handkerchief Flynn had obtained for her. She offered it, but he pushed her hand away.

“Give me your damn foot,” he said. His eyes were wet and strained, and yet he expected them to pretend the past few minutes never happened. He had expelled a degree of his sadness until that emotion could be tolerated and ignored again. Anger returned and reclaimed its sway of him. “Your foot!”

Lucy picked up her foot, and Flynn forced the second boot on. He was up as soon as it was buttoned. He wiped a hand over his face and grabbed his hat.

“Fix your hair,” he ordered. “We leave in ten minutes, no matter what you look like.”

He left her alone to finish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emotionally compromised Croatian trash fire. A man crying with his head in a woman’s lap is my ultimate weakness. Actually just men with their head in a woman’s lap in general. No matter how big and intimidating he is, it immediately makes him vulnerable and small. I love that stuff.


	4. Prison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: “Lucy goes to visit Flynn in prison please!!!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t know how the liberation of Garcia Flynn will happen. I’d like if the team busted him out. Or maybe this. I’m giving you options. And in this scenario, Flynn working with the team would be sanctioned. He wouldn’t have to sneak around as a fugitive anymore.

The room was dark, built around its purpose. It was lit well by harsh, fluorescent lights, but their blue beams fell upon gray concrete floors, black brick walls, and a stainless steel table. Flynn’s figure stood out in its white jumpsuit, a stark contrast to all around him. The long chain of his handcuffs draped over the metal table they connected to and matched.

Lucy was apprehensive to approach him. There was little chance he had forgiven her in the one day since his arrest. No, his expression unto her denoted nothing and promised nothing but a warranted hatred. Lucy flinched when the door slammed shut behind her. It locked. They sealed her inside the small dark room with Garcia Flynn, a dangerous man whom she unwittingly betrayed.

Weakness before Flynn would help in nothing, so Lucy picked up her head. She pried her guilty gaze from the floor, and she sat in the chair across from Flynn. The table was between them.

Flynn said nothing, and the deliberate eye contact which supplanted speech was intimidating. He placed every ounce of accountability upon her with only that look. A glare and a scowl and a shadow around his eyes conveyed plenty.

Lucy tapped her finger on the table. It made a quiet thump, the only noise in the deathly silent room. “I’m sorry,” she said, and she would say it as many times as he asked it of her. “I- I didn’t know. I promise.”

Flynn gave no reply. He continued to fill his space of dialogue with only that hateful stare. He blamed her. If he believed her claim, if he believed she was ignorant to his planned seizure, he could still blame her lack of wariness. Those who consorted with criminals were expected to behave as them or else doom them. It was her fault. Knowingly or unknowingly, Lucy allowed herself to be followed.

“We don’t have much time,” she continued. Her apology was given, but it was not the sole reason for her visit. She would not have been granted entry for a mere apology. Only she cared about his feelings. “Something… something’s gone wrong.” It was an understatement, but Flynn would hardly care about the nausea Lucy still felt from having her own mother arrested not one hour prior. She kept everything relevant and succinct. “Two hours ago,” she explained, “the... _Mothership_  was stolen... again.” Flynn barely blinked, forgoing any length of time, however small, in which he might communicate his rage. “Emma stole it, Emma Whitmore, your pilot.” Flynn’s cold eyes remained unchanged, but the corners of his lips curled in and up, smiling, smirking. It was a horrid and odious expression. “This isn’t funny!” she yelled at him. “She’s...” Lucy hesitated in telling Flynn, knowing he would want nothing more than to doubt her information. “There’s something you should know.” She took a deep breath for courage. It did not help. She looked down at the table. “Emma, she’s Rittenhouse— was... Rittenhouse— all along. She’s taken the _Mothership_ , Flynn. And now we have to stop her before she changes history for them, just like they have been wanting from the start.” She paused again before continuing and looked up. Flynn’s smile fell, but his mouth stayed in that silent, straight line. He would like her next conclusion even less. “She killed every agent who went to that warehouse to retrieve the _Mothership_. I think that... I think that if you’d gone back there, she might have tried to kill you. Or maybe you would have killed her. Either way, you...” She did not want to say it. “I don’t think she would have taken you back to save your family. I’m sorry.” Lucy validated Flynn’s arrest. It saved his life. It saved him from having a plan but no one to help carry it out.

“Excuses,” he uttered, one spiteful word. He followed it with more. “And lies.”

“It’s true!”

“Emma _helped_  me,” Flynn hissed.

“Emma _used_  you,” Lucy argued. “You took her right to the _Mothership_. You- You killed Anthony Bruhl so that she’d be its only pilot. She used you... Flynn.”

“Well,” he tentatively conceded, hopelessly caustic and angry, “you would know all about that, wouldn’t you, Lucy?” Now that he was speaking, Flynn chose words which would cut deepest. He took advantage of Lucy’s established guilt and sought to push the knife deeper into his own back.

“She’s gone back to one specific year,” Lucy said, keeping them on the pressing subject, “and I don’t know why. I don’t know why, and I don’t- I don’t have _time_  to read the entire... book you gave me.”

“What do you want me to do about it?” he questioned. If he had ideas of his own, he would not volunteer them. If he could guess at Lucy’s implications, he would make her beg.

“They are... prepared,” Lucy told him, “to offer immunity for your services as a consultant, an asset. You know more about fighting Rittenhouse than anyone.” It was good news, fantastic news. Flynn’s expression remained unchanged. What would he do with such freedom? “You won’t... have a gun,” she said. “And you’ll be monitored 24/7 through an ankle bracelet. That was the suggestion I got them to agree with... just until it’s over and we don’t need you anymore. Then you’re free to go.”

“You expect me to believe that?” Flynn sneered. He was not stupid. He knew that his lifelong odds of looking at anything other than prison bars was infinitesimal. “I know how the government deals with terrorists, Lucy. Did you, what, forget I used track them down for a living?”

“No,” she said, “but they know now, Flynn. You got them to see just how much of a danger Rittenhouse is. You did it. You- You did.” She flattered him and all his efforts. She substantiated his paranoia on a grand scale, justifying and repeating it to every person necessary in bringing down the organization. “They get it now. They know Rittenhouse is the bigger threat. So they’re making a deal with you for your... for your freedom. No one has the time to come up with a better option.” The date Emma chose was relevant to Rittenhouse but obscure to Lucy and predating Ethan’s files. She did not want to fly into the situation blind, so she asked for someone who could tell her what to expect. She demanded it. Flynn truly knew more about Rittenhouse than any of them. He always had.

“No time for a better option,” he contemplated. “I wonder what it is that happens when they do think of one.”

“The deal’s a guarantee,” Lucy promised, “but it’s time sensitive. I’m supposed to- to leave with your answer.” She looked at her watch. “And I have five minutes left to get it.”

“It’s not just me who should be looking for guarantees though, is it?” Flynn did not care for Lucy’s time limit, or if he did, he chose to spend it talking. His answer would come after satisfaction, and in the meantime, Flynn ran down his own clock by tormenting her. “You’re guilty like me, aren’t you, Lucy? Let’s see, you, uh, defied a government you knew had been infiltrated, stole a time machine, aided a known terrorist by giving him a list of names.” Flynn grinned and it mocked her perceived ignorance. “You broke the law, committed treason. What makes you think you get to walk away, huh? What makes you so special after all that?” She had no answer he would accept, not in his current state of martyrdom. “Did you never stop and think that maybe it’s nothing? Maybe you aren’t special. _Maybe_... they just... aren’t... done with you yet.” Until both the _Lifeboat_  and _Mothership_  were recovered, Lucy had a job, a purpose. They needed her. Flynn presented that necessity as her only security of freedom. He wanted Lucy to doubt and fear her future on the other side of the end. Perhaps he even wanted it to happen. He wanted them to be together and share the same fate, as he always said they would. “They’ll turn on you, Lucy.” His words might have sounded like a warning if he spared more kindness to his tone. “You think you’re a hero, but you’ll be their villain the minute they don’t need you anymore.”

“I haven’t killed anyone,” Lucy defended. Jesse James was an overdue death she would live with, but it was justified.

“No, no, neither did I,” he agreed, “not at first.” Flynn’s life on the run was begat by the framed accusation that he killed his family. Until he stormed Mason Industries and shot a guard, every death by his hands was sanctioned. “Why help them?”

“I have to,” she said. She had no choice. “I can’t just sit back and- and watch the world fall apart.”

“Maybe,” Flynn bitterly suggested, “it’s time we let the world burn. _Maybe_... it doesn’t want to be saved.” He reclined against the hard chair. The chains of his handcuffs rattled and restrained and would not let him cross his arms across his chest, as he so obviously wanted. He nodded at the cuffs. “You see now how it treats its heroes. Do you see, Lucy?” His lips drew back in a sneer. “And they will finish with you, too, before the end. They got a cell... right next to mine.” He nodded his head at the wall, indicating the direction where they kept him. “I think maybe they’ll let you live there... once you are more trouble than they can ignore.” Flynn smiled, and it taunted. Its cold teeth bit through space, and flesh, and muscle right down to the bones it chilled. “Oh, you won’t mind it so much,” he told her. “No books yet, unfortunately, no entertainment. I know how much the professor,” he gestured at her, “enjoys her books. And the room itself... I think they like to use the word ‘cozy,’ even though we all know that means ‘small.’ And who needs a window? You have a good memory, don’t you, Lucy? Honestly, it shouldn’t bother anyone too greatly— well, not unless that person were... claustrophobic, maybe? You wouldn’t happen to be claustrophobic, now would you, Lucy?”

“Stop,” she ordered. “Stop it.” Flynn was an efficient man. Everything he said to her had two purposes: he made Lucy know what her carelessness sentenced him to, and he made certain she knew what could be waiting for her. The journal gave him an unfair advantage into her mind and her fears. Flynn was chained to a table and still he had influence. “I need your answer.”

Flynn sighed. “You did say I have five minutes left,” he reminded. “They let us have all this time together. Don’t you want to use it?”

She looked at her watch. “Now it’s—”

“Two minutes, fifteen seconds,” Flynn interrupted. He kept impeccable time. He kept track of how long he still had her ear. Flynn could growl and jeer with his every word, but he knew that if he refused the proposal, there was a chance they would never see each other again. He utilized every allotted second to keep her there. He would give his answer when time was up and not before.

“You know,” Lucy told him, “they wanted to leave you here unless we had questions. I told them you’d never agree to that.” She did not expect a ‘thank you’ for arguing on his behalf. She knew he would not otherwise cooperate. Everyone worked best with motivation. And after being arrested for his efforts, Flynn would need it most of all. He had no reason to answer questions from a cage. “After everything we’ve been through,” Lucy said, “the government is... prepared to admit that this could take more than one trip. You get your immunity when it’s over. Until then you’d be on house arrest, so they can monitor you.”

“House arrest?” Flynn derided. He gestured wide with his arms— as wide as he could— and looked around them. “What house, Lucy?”

“I have...” Lucy was hesitant in suggesting it. For some reason, she had an easier time pitching the idea to Agent Christopher. “I have space.”

“Space?”

“Space! I have space. I have an entire... _damn house_  of it,” her words betrayed the emotion too close behind her, “all to myself.” It was a large and empty home. It was quiet. She could not live there alone. She would not. Again, Lucy looked at her watch. “I need your answer.”

Flynn breathed in through his nose. His chest swelled. He held it for a few seconds then blew it back out. “No.”

“‘No’? What does that mean, ‘no’?” Lucy demanded. “No to- to living in my house, no to the deal? What, Flynn?”

“No to all of it,” he said. He did not care to help. He did not want to, not for such tawdry profit. “I don’t want immunity,” Flynn told her. His voice was deep and scathing. It crawled like a snake right out of his throat, slithering along on its belly, hissing and baring its fangs. “I don’t want a job. I want... my family brought back.” No other payment would suffice. “You get me that, Lucy, and I’ll be your little slave. Everything I know,” he waved his hand and it clinked, “yours.”

Lucy cleared her throat. She looked up into the camera wired to a wall. “This conversation is being recorded,” she said, “and I have been... instructed by Agent Christopher that the record will reflect me telling you that- that the United States Government does not negotiate with terrorists, not even potential assets.” Lucy took a very long pause, letting the seconds roll by, letting her statement go down on the official transcript in the hiring of Garcia Flynn. “There,” she finished, “I’ve said it.”

Flynn read her loud and clear. He heard every word she did not say. “How do I know I can trust you?” he asked. He was tired of trusting Lucy. He was skeptical.

“You don’t.” They both knew she could not convince him with words. Only actions would satisfy, and she had no grand displays yet. “But everything that I have promised you,” Lucy swore, “I will... _personally_  guarantee it— everything, Flynn.” The most important promise was not excluded. She had told Flynn they would save his family. She would honor her word. “What do you have to lose?” The only thing he had left in the world was his pride. He would damn them all to protect it. He would. He could.

“Tell Agent... Christopher,” Flynn decided, “I’m willing to cooperate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm. I dunno though. Do you think I really captured the depths of his potential bitterness? lol.
> 
> Canonically, I know Flynn would not be living with Lucy. They’d probably keep him locked up in Mason Industries. Or never let him out in the first place. He’d escape in like five minutes. Why bother with house arrest at all? lol. But I’m writing fanfiction, not a script. You’re acting like I have to follow the rules. Get off my back. And enjoy the blissful thoughts of house arrest domesticity, dang. Although! Lucy and Agent Christopher would know Flynn isn’t actually going anywhere until he brings his family back. He is tethered by that secret, off-the-record promise. He needs the list of his family’s murderers, a time machine, a pilot, and opportunity. And until he gets all four of those things at the same time he’ll play along.


	5. Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: Jealous!Flynn, of Wyatt and Lucy's fiance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why can no one remember Noah’s name? lol.

“Come on, Lucy,” Flynn goaded, “you have to be a little tempted to let me do this one.”

“You still want to kill a man,” Lucy refused. “You know I can’t let you do that. It’s not right.” They paused their discussion to clap as the speaker left the stage. The convention roared with the warring sounds of approval and abhorrence.

“Yes, but he isn’t really a good man,” Flynn spoke over the noise. “If he writes for his newspaper, he’ll misrepresent everything being said here, radicalize it. He riles his readers and reaffirms the entire country’s beliefs.” The 1850 National Rights Convention was a powderkeg of opposing ideals, even within itself. No outward help was needed to condemn its revolutionary platforms. “He sets back the work of every person here, and the nineteenth amendment happens seventy years from now, just like it’s supposed to. Or... we can expedite it.”

“It’s still wrong,” Lucy said. Flynn’s argument was one of those many he had where her conviction was questioned. Sometimes it was difficult to tell him no, but history was meant to unfold as it did. Any change, big or small, threatened the present. “Besides,” Lucy rationalized, “even when women won the right, it took… decades before some of them voted separate from their husband’s opinion. However many elections you think Rittenhouse won, you’d just be giving them two votes instead.”

“Perhaps,” he conceded. “Maybe I’m putting too much faith in the intelligent, single woman.” Flynn smiled at her and it was purposefully charming and complimentary. He turned back towards the stage, though it was empty, not yet taken by its next speaker. “By the way,” he asked without looking, speaking only from pre-existing observation, “who exactly is that ring supposed to fool? And why?”

“Ring?” Lucy looked at her hands and saw the engagement ring she always forgot to remove. “Oh.” She took it off and put it in her purse. “I’m not trying to fool anyone,” she told him. “It’s not a cover. I had a dinner... with my fiancé.” It was business too personal for Flynn, but he already knew so much about her life. What was one more thing?

Flynn snorted. “You don’t have a fiancé.”

“Oh, so you just... know me that well, do you?” Lucy demanded.

“Yes,” he answered simply, “I do.” He was unashamed over his knowledge of Lucy’s life, his memorization of her past and future as though she were a subject worth knowing. It was flattering in a way that intruded and embarrassed. Lucy almost blushed.

“I didn’t,” she said. “Have a fiancé, I didn’t... not until you started all of this. We go on these trips altering the past and now... I’m engaged.”

Flynn frowned. He did not like it. “You should know,” he warned her, betraying a confidence that was never expressly given, “his last wife only died because of his jealousy. Are you sure you want to get involved with a man like that?”

“What?” Lucy questioned, confused. “You looked up Noah? That’s- That’s so… invasive, god.” Flynn had the journal, but Lucy did not like the idea that he spied even further into her present life. But maybe she was just as curious as him when the loose thread was out in the open, asking to be pulled. “He was married?” Noah was so sweet, kind, and understanding. He never even struck her as the jealous type.

Flynn put his fingers over the bridge of his nose and massaged it while he sighed. “Who... is Noah?”

“My fiancé,” she said, “the man we’re talking about.” Quickly, she realized they were not referring to the same person. “Who did you think I meant?”

He shrugged. “Wyatt.”

“Why.... would I be engaged to Wyatt?”

“Why would you be engaged to... Noah?” he returned.

“I don’t know,” Lucy said. “I wish I did. The _Hindenburg_  happened differently, and now I have no sister. Instead, I have a fiancé I’ve never met. He has all these memories of us together, and I have... a night walking around my own engagement party, listening in on other people’s conversations on the- on the off chance someone said his name.”

“So you don’t, uh, _feel_  anything for him?” Flynn inquired.

“Pity,” Lucy spoke. “I feel... sympathy that his fiancée is gone and he’ll never see her again— never, this… woman he loves. But no,” she shook her head, “nothing... romantic.”

“Good,” he said with a nod, “get rid of him.” If there was no personal connection on Lucy’s end, the break would be clean for her.

“Uh,” she drawled, “excuse me?”

“He’ll just get in the way,” Flynn selfishly explained, “now or later, whichever. Best to go ahead and get rid of him.” He made a sweeping motion with his hand, a severing chop.

“It’s not that easy,” Lucy argued. She wished it was. “He loves me, and… what if, you know, we are _meant_  to be together? What if I was always supposed to meet him, love… him? What if changing the past just changed how soon it happened?” Her cloying romanticism did not appeal to Flynn, not in a sympathetic way, not even in an understanding way. It irritated him.

“You have a destiny,” he stated in a low voice.

“With you, you mean?” she scoffed.

Flynn stared at her. His broad shoulders raised and fell with a deep breath he used to stall speech. “Yes,” he said, and he did not appreciate her constant battle against that fate, “with me.”

“Well,” Lucy reasoned, completely ignoring the fact she had no plans to join him, since Flynn was ignoring it as well, “our partnership, this… thing… we’re supposed to have, it’s not romantic.” She spoke only from supposition, knowing that, in the end, she had no idea what was in the journal. “So, I can… have a boyfriend, can’t I— or a… fiancé? I can do whatever I want, be with whomever I want, as long as it doesn’t get in the way?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.” He refused to elaborate.

“What does that _mean_?” she demanded. “You can’t just say ‘no!’ It is _my_  life. And I know you know the plan for it, but I have to figure this out for myself so—”

“Shh!” Flynn hushed her rising volume. He looked around at the attention they were gathering. “Come here.” He grabbed her arm and pulled them away from the audience crowded around the stage.

“If you try anything,” Lucy warned him in a quiet voice.

“What, you’ll scream?” he taunted. They were in the best audience for such a cry: an entire building full of people sympathetic to women’s rights. “Of course… you’d have to actually _ask_  for their help.” He knew she would not. There was an empty spot against a wall, and he stood them beside it so that they might be concealed on at least one side. He reached into his coat pocket and took out the journal, holding it in front of her. “You know who isn’t in here?” He untied the book and flipped through its pages before shutting it back closed. “You know who doesn’t have not one damn mention?” Lucy huffed and did not look at Flynn when he was behaving so domineering. “Your fiancé,” he answered himself. “So you think you’re meant to be, you and him? You’re wrong.” He tucked the journal away again. “He’s just some chump you happened to meet who knows _your_  entire life while you barely know his name, is that right?”

“You mean like you?” Lucy retorted. He was no better. “How is this any different from- from you and that… damn journal?” She hated the journal. “You know me, and I…” She was tired of people knowing her before she met them. “I just… want to know I can have a life outside of this. Maybe you’re right. Maybe… things with Noah don’t go anywhere.” She would not be surprised. “But can I not have just this- this one thing?”

Flynn paused in sympathy before telling her, “No,” again.

“Why ‘no’?”

“Because.”

“Because _why_?”

“ _Because_ ,” he growled before dropping his voice down to a whisper, “I don’t… like you having a fiancé.”

The way he worded it that time spoke of personal reasons, not practical ones. She understood. “I’m sorry,” Lucy said. “I’m sorry that your wife is gone—”

“No.”

“And you’re jealous of someone else’s chance at happiness, but—”

“That’s not… why I’m jealous,” Flynn argued.

“Oh.” Lucy felt the need to apologize again, more sincerely, for bringing up his wife without reason. “But you are... you’re jealous?”

“No.” He would not look her in the eye.

“You are,” she observed. “You’re jealous of… something.”

“Is it important?” Flynn said, forming a question she must answer instead of a statement she could contradict.

“I don’t know,” she honestly replied, and she knew that probing further would not garner an answer.

“Then it’s not,” he decided for them. Flynn put his hands behind his back and stood straighter, away from the slump he was forced into whenever they spoke quietly and closely. He looked out at the amalgamated sea of people, broken apart most severely by the varying shades of bell-shaped dresses.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Lucy stated.

“What question?”

“Why,” she asked again, “did you think I’d be engaged to... Wyatt?”

“Because nothing would piss me off more,” he muttered, “and I swear, Lucy, sometimes I think you act that way on purpose.”

“You would take it personally,” she replied. Of course he would. Flynn was incredibly sensitive about all matters concerning them and their supposed future together. “I’m not…” Lucy owed Flynn no peace of mind, but she also knew she would receive none from him unless she put the matter to rest. “I’m not going to… marry Wyatt,” she said, and she had no plans to do so.

“Good.” Flynn tried to pretend the confirmation did not make him smugly satisfied. In that, he failed. “Because there might not be anything in the journal about a, uh, fiancé,” he told her, “but there is mention of a certain kiss… between you and Wyatt, strictly for undercover reasons, of course.”

“I see,” Lucy replied. “And how did I, um… describe it?”

“Oh,” he said, “somewhere between kissing your high school boyfriend and a brother.”

It sounded like an exaggerated lie, but who was she to contradict it? Lucy chuckled and shook her head. “And you were worried,” she said, “about that?”

“I know you like to learn from your mistakes,” Flynn answered. Being such a meticulous planner, he was unfavorable of an approach dependent upon trial and error. “I think, perhaps, a very, very bad one would be marrying a little boy who— I think I have this right— won’t stop calling you ‘ma’am’?”

“Wyatt,” Lucy sighed, “is not a boy.”

Flynn scrunched his face up in contemplation, prepared to argue. “Not exactly a man,” he asserted. “What do you talk about when you’re alone, if not something to do with all of this?” He waved his arm around at the surrounding, tangible past. “Does he even _like_  history?”

“Do you?” Lucy returned.

“I’m getting a taste,” he said, and he patted the journal through his coat. “You gave it to me. Your passion, it’s… contagious.” He grinned.

“And you don’t think Wyatt can take up an interest?”

“Has he?” Flynn inquired, calling her bluff.

Lucy let several seconds of stubborn silence pass them by. “No.”

“He won’t,” Flynn insisted, though it was unclear if he spoke through assumption or a firm knowledge from the journal. “And he won’t care when you talk about it either. You’re better off with someone who’s interested in what you have to say.”

“He listens,” Lucy defended.

“No, I’m sure he listens to every answer he asks for,” Flynn mocked. “But I would also be willing to bet… he tunes you out when it’s not important anymore.” Lucy did not answer, and that told Flynn all he needed to know. “He married young,” he criticized, “and somehow came out the other side with too little respect for women.”

“As opposed to all the respect you have?” Lucy challenged.

Flynn frowned. “Have you felt disrespect from me, Lucy?” He said nothing more and made them wait in a standstill that would only end with her answer.

“No,” she murmured.

“No,” he agreed. “Which is why you shouldn’t go involving yourself with… boys.”

“Right,” Lucy scoffed, “I need a man? A man like you, who’s killed people?”

“I don’t think you _need_  anything, no,” Flynn said, “least of all another killer. You act like Wyatt wouldn’t shoot me if you let him.”

“You think I stop him?”

“I think you would,” Flynn claimed, hoped, “if the moment came.”

Lucy turned away from him. She gazed out at the crowd then down at the floor. “I don’t… want anyone to die,” she said.

Flynn’s hand twitched at his side. He raised it towards her but stopped before touching. If he intended a gesture of comfort, he lacked the strength to follow through. “I wish...” He could not even complete the verbal sentiment, but Lucy knew what he wanted to convey. In a perfect world, neither of them would be exposed to so much unwarranted death. Flynn cleared his throat. “Where are Wyatt and Rufus, by the way?” He looked over his shoulder as if Wyatt would be right behind him and Lucy had been nothing more than a distraction all along.

Lucy was not proud of the answer she had to give. “Slavery’s abolished in New York,” she said, “but that doesn’t mean they won’t come up with a charge for a man behaving any way other than what they expect.” She sighed. “Wyatt’s busting him out. I was supposed to look around for you.” Flynn found her first.

“Good,” he said with a smile, “then you have no backup.” Lucy was not a spy or strategist by trade. She was not trained to keep information such as that a secret, and she regretted her blunder. Flynn, however, had no insidious plans for her. “Put Nolan’s ring back on,” he ordered.

Lucy exhaled. “It’s ‘Noah,’ and you know that,” she said. “Why?”

“Do it!”

Lucy glared at him, but curiosity won out. She reached into her purse and put the ring back on her finger. “I’m not helping you,” she reiterated.

Flynn put his arm in hers and walked them amicably through the hall and its hundreds of bustling attendees. He leaned down to whisper in her ear. “They’re interviewing married couples for their opinions.” With his free hand, Flynn pointed at an area set aside for press. “Let’s meet our reporter,” he suggested, “put a face to the bigotry, huh?” He walked them between the throng, leading with his body to break the crowd apart as Lucy followed.

There were several men writing in several notebooks in front of several couples or individuals. Until the next speaker approached the stage, there was not much for the working professional to do but gauge the crowd.

Flynn tugged her arm, but Lucy kept her feet planted. He almost pulled her right off the floor.

“What?” he hissed, and somehow he seemed genuinely confused by her dissension.

“I can’t let you do this,” Lucy said again.

“I’m doing it whether you ‘let me’ or not,” Flynn replied. He tried to take his arm away from Lucy, but she held on. “Let go.”

“No.”

Flynn humored her no more. He twisted his arm until it broke her grip. He stalked away from her and towards the reporters. Lucy followed. His demeanor was perfectly quaint and pleasant when he spoke to a stranger. “Hello,” he asked a reporter, “I’m looking for the representative from the _Herald_. Perhaps you know where he is?”

“He went that way,” the man said, and he pointed towards a wall and into the hallway cut out in its center.

“Thank you.” Flynn nodded and headed in the indicated direction. Lucy was right behind him.

“Flynn, would you just- just think about everything this could change,” she pleaded. Any one president not being elected could decimate the entire established line which followed.

“I am.”

The corridor was less congested than the auditorium, but still crowded more than was preferred. Ahead of them and near the end was an unpleasant looking man who wore a grave expression and a press badge. Flynn stuck his hand into his coat and traced his thumb over the pistol so that he might be reassured to its presence.

“Here?” Lucy exclaimed. She knew Flynn was bold, but there were too many witnesses.

“No.” He pulled his hand back out. “But I am going to follow him until he leaves.” Flynn’s expression relaxed as he delayed the inevitable. He looked like a man again, less like a villain. Lightheartedness became him.

“I want to stop you,” Lucy said, voicing her intentions at the risk of sounding like she was repeating herself.

“What, for his sake?” Flynn questioned. “You know he wouldn’t care what you have to say, right? Because you’re a woman. You could go up to him right now— you could— and _tell him_  there’s a threat on his life, and he still wouldn’t listen. He’d call you hysterical. You really want to save somebody like that?”

“No,” Lucy shook her head, “not for his sake.” She did not want a man to die, but there were more motives behind her plea. “For yours.” Flynn was taken aback. He had no immediate reaction, and he licked his lip as he fumbled for one. “You don’t want to do this,” she said. “I can tell.”

“Oh, so now you think you know me,” he retorted, “is that it?”

Lucy had no such advantage as a journal. She had no insight into Flynn’s mind other than what she perceived during their meetings. “More than I used to,” was her best answer. “Isn’t that what you want, for me to- to understand you?”

Flynn did not respond. It was true. That was what he wanted. But being confronted with it exposed the true nature of such a reality: he was left bare and vulnerable before her. His thoughts became decipherable. Being understood was a double-edged sword. “It doesn’t mean anything if you’re not willing to help me.” Insight was valuable for partners but a weakness with enemies. He wanted it to mean something.

“Why are you jealous of Wyatt and Noah?” Lucy asked one more time.

“Not important,” he restated. They had categorized it thusly. “He’s moving,” Flynn said. “Come on.” He began tailing their targeted reporter from a safe and inconspicuous distance.

“Flynn?” Lucy called. He did not answer or acknowledge her. “Flynn?” she said again, louder.

“What?”

He turned around and Lucy put a hand on either side of his face. She urged him down, and Flynn was so confused and caught off guard, he went. Lucy tilted her head up and kissed him, a quick peck. She did it again. The third time, Flynn reciprocated, and Lucy’s incredibly wild assumption about his jealous behavior was confirmed.

Flynn’s body was stiff, but as Lucy moved closer, he relaxed. He practically melted. His large hands were so gentle on Lucy’s neck and along her hairline as he held her there. The wide hoop skirt of her dress pushed up against his legs. They were in public, and Flynn did not care. He did not seem to notice. He was getting what he wanted, what Lucy was giving him. She meant so much to him. Even with them still on opposing sides, her journal was at times his only friend, his only voice against doubt, his only support. Lucy was so important to him, so familiar to him, and she saw now that the lines had blurred. He needed them to be partners. He wanted them to be something more. Flynn took advantage of opportunity given. He kissed with fervor and affection. Lucy felt guilty.

“All right, all right,” came a commanding voice. “Let’s break it up.” Lucy pulled herself away from Flynn and glanced at the police officer who was giving them a disapproving look. “You and the misses take it outside please, sir.”

Flynn’s expression was first surprised and confused, but dawning comprehension brought irritation towards Lucy. He realized why she did what she did. Public displays of affection were as socially reprehensible as a crime, especially one so over-amorous as what they did and especially one taking place in front of the policeman Lucy had seen standing a few yards away. “Officer,” Flynn attempted to placate, “my wife simply,” he chuckled, “got a little carried away with the excitement. It won’t happen again.”

“Outside,” the man ordered once more. “Take your wife home, and please don’t return to the convention, sir.”

“I really don’t think—” Flynn took a step forward and was pushed back. He stared at his shoulder where the policeman shoved him. His expression soured until he was glaring at the man, but he accepted their ban from the meeting hall in order to prevent making a scene. Flynn grabbed Lucy around the arm. “Come on, honey.” He led them to the exit. “You think I won’t just wait until he leaves?” he whispered at her.

“You can pick one man out of a thousand?” Lucy replied.

Flynn scowled. “I know where he works,” he reminded her, “ _The New York Herald_.”

“And what,” she asked, “you’ll burn it down?”

“Burn it,” he considered, “or shoot him at his desk.” He had not yet made up his mind, not on the heels of his first plan. “All I have to do is stop him from writing.”

They walked through the doors and out into the cold, unforgiving dusk of a New York October. “You shouldn’t kill him.”

“Yes,” Flynn groaned, “I got that, Lucy, thank you.”

“For yourself,” she said. “You don’t want to kill him.”

“I need to,” he shamefully uttered.

“There’s another way, you know,” Lucy suggested. Flynn waited with disinterest for whatever merciful, ineffective plan she had in mind. “Change the article,” she said, and Flynn was actually impressed. “After all, wouldn’t... a positive story from an influential paper do more than eliminating it altogether?”

Flynn smirked. “You know, I’d hardly call myself a writer,” he said. “Although I have read your Alamo letter, a few of your books.” He offered her a job. “I could use your help. And you, Lucy, could be helping women everywhere... a few years from now, but ahead of schedule all the same.”

She could not help him change history on such a grand scale. It was wrong to let him do it at all, but her options were limited. Death or the destruction of an important newspaper company could prove worse. “Make him write it,” she said. “His own words will be better. Even if he tries to... recant with his editor later, the story would already be out. And a reprint in the 1850s was basically financial suicide. They won’t be able to correct it until the next paper is released. By then, the story is being repeated in newspapers across the country.” The effect on history could be substantial, but Lucy knew Flynn would succeed in erasing the article one way or another. She could not babysit the writer, and his office, and every other aspect between pen and paperboy.

“And how do I make him write a sentiment so, uh, opposite what he wants?”

“I don’t know,” she said. She knew. “Maybe he would have to consider it in his best interest.” Lucy would not advocate murder, but she could settle for a simple threat.

Flynn smiled at her. It was not cruel. It was not mocking or devious. He looked at her with open fondness and affection. “You know you’re too smart for either of them, don’t you?”

Lucy shook her head but she was grinning at the duality of his flattering, demeaning humor. “Uh, you’ve never even met Noah,” she said.

“But you agree you’re too smart for Wyatt.”

“No,” she rolled her eyes, “but it’s not any of your business either way.”

“You kissed me, got me kicked out of the convention hall,” Flynn remarked. “I know everything about you from your journal. And you, Lucy, you… are trying to save my soul. When exactly does your life become my business again?”

“I don’t know,” Lucy murmured, and she regretted her answer once she realized that what she should have said was, “Never.” She gave no such absolute, be it a denial or not. Instead she confessed to confusion, reluctance, inevitability. “Maybe… Maybe when you understand I’m not the woman from the journal. And maybe I never will be. What happens then?”

“You will be,” he insisted.

“But what if I’m not?”

Flynn’s fist clenched and he took a deep, loud breath in through his nose. “I have... to believe... you will be.” He had no other choice. Flynn opened his hands again and flexed his fingers from their vexation.

“I’m sorry I kissed you,” Lucy expressed. Her guilt over the matter was consuming. “I didn’t know you... that you felt so...” He felt more for her than she thought. Using that was manipulative, even if it was the right choice to save a man’s life. “It was wrong, and I’m- I’m sorry.”

Flynn’s face betrayed precious little. He was not sad, nor was he angry. He was not even embarrassed. With an unreadable expression like that, Lucy’s apprehension was understandable as he approached her. She took a step back, but Flynn grabbed her wrist. His grip quickly loosened and moved down. Flynn held her left hand in his and gently slid the ring off her finger. He turned her hand over, placed it in her palm, and closed her fingers around it. “Put this away before you get robbed,” he cautioned.

“Wait, you- you’re leaving me?”

Flynn never doubted Lucy’s ability to handle herself, not even as a woman alone in 1850. “I do have a lot to do now, you know,” he said. “Got to find out where our reporter lives.” It was more work for him, but he accepted Lucy’s claim that it was a better option. “Maybe don’t tell Wyatt where I’ve gone, hm?”

“I’ll say I stopped you.” She prevented Flynn from killing a man, but it was winning a battle only to lose the war. In fact, she gave munitions to the opposing side. It was for a good cause, she tried to tell herself, but that did not make the notion of changing history any easier to swallow. “But you still got away.”

“All right then.” He was on board with her simple plan. “Thank you, Lucy.”

She could not accept his thanks, not for this. “Just… go,” she said, “before Wyatt and Rufus show up.”

Flynn bowed his head in adieu. He turned away before immediately coming back to her. “You know,” he spoke, unable to stop himself, “I’m interested to see how it is you’ll describe _our_  kiss in your new journal.”

“New journal?” she said. “I thought you were convinced I wrote that one.”

“As someone present for at least his part,” Flynn told her, “it wasn’t the sort of kiss you leave out.” His smile was pleasant, if arrogant, though even that was endearing.

Lucy shook her head. “Goodnight, Flynn.”

He took one step towards her, then a second, until they were right up against each other and she was forced to look up to see his eyes. “Goodnight, professor.” His head bent down. The tips of their noses brushed. He nuzzled close against her but did not kiss, though Lucy waited for it. He left the choice to her.

“Goodnight, Flynn,” she whispered so close over his lips.

“Goodnight, Lucy.”

She wanted to follow through. She wanted to condemn common sense and never associate with it again, the useless thing. Maybe she was going to.

They were interrupted.

“If I see you at it again, I’m arresting you,” yelled that same policeman from the doorway.

Flynn and Lucy broke apart with a laugh— a nervous laugh, a humorous laugh. Lucy patted his chest and pushed him away. Flynn took her hand and bowed so that he might commit a more contemporary behavior. He kissed the back of her hand.

“Goodnight, Lucy.”

“Goodnight, Flynn.”

He walked away, crossing one street and then another until he disappeared. Lucy waited for Wyatt and Rufus to find her.

When they returned to the present, it was difficult to quash the sense of betrayal which came from learning that their writer penned one final story before being attacked and murdered in his home. The article was published posthumously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha. Why can’t I leave things nice? Could have left off that last paragraph but I absolutely refuse. Of course, Lucy also used his feelings and kissed him to get them kicked out so... they’re even.
> 
> You know I wanted to go way over the top and make Flynn humorously jealous, but it’s difficult to do that while writing him in character. Maybe I should have tried harder. But I do like it being a little more subtle like this. We know. And Lucy gets it eventually. 
> 
> Flynn being jealous means dragging the competition so he looks better by comparison, right? That’s what a jealous Flynn does? Also do you know how hard it is to make Flynn jealous while keeping him true to his fairly feminist characterization? Very hard. So I went big with the background plot to offset that. lol. But jealousy can be fun so I welcomed and enjoyed writing it.
> 
> I really liked the plot of this one. I got a little carried away thinking of a situation to set the prompt in. Maybe it stole focus from the prompt itself. But I liked it.


	6. Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: “I haven’t dreamed in a long time. But now, every time I close my eyes, I see you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's so super duper fluffy. lol. I had a little trouble, but I found a way to make this work for Flynn and Lucy. I’m not against fluff. Some ships you just have to work a little harder with to get there.
> 
> This prompt is unrelated to, but I guess sort of fits in the same universe as, chapter two.

Flynn woke all at once, as if a switch were flipped or an alarm went off. The time for sleep was ended. What a welcomed conclusion it was. He no longer slept for rest or relaxation. Instead, he snuck in combat naps to keep his body running, and those he stole at a moment’s notice, usually passing out on top of the blankets and with his shoes still on.

This sleep was different. His shoes were on the floor by the bed. His body was on sheets and under blankets. His head was on a pillow. This sleep was intentional.

“What do you dream about?”

“Did I wake you up?” Flynn murmured. His body needed sleep more desperately than Lucy’s, but if someone was going to get it, he would rather it be her.

“Yep.” She was endearingly honest. She once treasured the societal construct of tact, but had since, and by his request, gotten rid of it— at least with him. Lucy picked up his arm and turned it over to look at his watch. It was pre-dawn, and the absence of sun— the abundance of thick curtains— made the blue light of the display that much brighter to their eyes. She quickly turned it off and sighed. “It was about that time anyway.” She did not want to leave.

Flynn kissed her bare shoulder. She had put on his black t-shirt hours ago, but the collar was so wide it left skin exposed on her. “You don’t have to go,” he suggested, as he always suggested.

“I… can’t,” Lucy replied, as she always replied, “not yet.” She was not ready to leave her life behind and join him completely. She sat on the fence between those existences. Flynn let her, for the time being. Having part of her, knowing she would come eventually, it was better than her continuing to fight, continuing to cling to normality and solid white morals. And in the meantime, she made a decent double-agent. “You mumbled… in your sleep,” Lucy said, returning to her question, her inquiry, about his dreams. Flynn only thought he could avoid the discussion.

“Sorry.” He had no idea what he said or how loud it was, but he apologized for disturbing her with it.

“Don’t be,” Lucy insisted. “It was sort of, uh, I don’t know… cute.” Flynn grimaced, and she took the expression more humorless than he intended. Lucy looked down at the rumpled sheets between them, their folds barely catching light from the various electronics in the room. “You, um... You want to talk about it... maybe?” It was kind of her to ask, but she knew the answer when she did.

Flynn shook his head. “No.”

“Do it anyway,” she told him, prioritizing what was best over his wishes. It was a bold thing to command, and it carried every chance of being shot down again. Flynn honored her mettle.

“They aren’t dreams,” he said, “not really, not- not... usually.” He burdened her with the truth, laying it out there, dismissing the idea that anything else could be waiting for him when he shut his eyes.

“Nightmares?” Lucy assumed.

“Terrors,” Flynn promoted them. They were one of the many reasons he had trouble sleeping. How could he willingly resign himself to such torment, be it well-earned or not?

“Every time?” she asked with precious, treasured sympathy. Lucy was sad for him, an emotion better than what he deserved. The sleeve of his shirt hung off her arm, nearly down to her elbow, when she reached up and touched his face. Flynn closed his eyes and relished the sensation of her delicate fingers on his cheek.

“No,” he was content to say— happy to reply with— on her behalf.

Whenever they met in a hotel, they debriefed one another of individual information, sharing all they knew or planned. That, they needed to do. What came after, they wanted. It was intimacy. It was a relief against accumulating stress. And when that was finished, sometimes, they slept. Flynn let Lucy see him at his weakest level, and it was a trust she never betrayed.

“It’s easier… when you’re here.” He felt safe. Lucy could not protect him with any creditable skills, and yet he felt secure. “I sleep easier, dream... I dream...” He dreamed better. He dreamed dreams, not nightmares. “I haven’t,” he sighed, “dreamed, not in a long time. But now, every time I close my eyes, I see you… Lucy.”

“And- And,” Lucy stammered, unsure of how to reply, even as a question, “what does... that... What do dreams like that look like?”

Flynn took his time in speaking, though he knew the answer before she asked. He let his fingers trace the soft skin of her arm, up with callused fingertips, down with hard nails. He watched the back and forth, transfixed upon his own movement. “The future,” he uttered. It was the one direction they never looked, being too preoccupied with everything it followed after.

“You think about the future a lot?” Lucy questioned.

“No,” he said. Neither of them had time for that. They did not have the imagination for it. If there was one lesson changing the past taught them, it was the simple principle that every action, big or small, affected what was going to happen. The future was ever-changing, and until their war ended, it could not be pinned down, not even by hopes, by thoughts, by dreams. “It’s just a dream,” Flynn reminded her. “It’s not real, Lucy. It’s not even on purpose.” Flynn’s conscious mind was not so bold as to entertain a future with Lucy.

“Isn’t that the point though?” she contradicted. “Dreams are... thoughts. They’re just thoughts you have no control over.” She was not wrong.

“What is it you think the future looks like?” Flynn never asked her. He had his guide, the journal, which he tried not to question, but he never asked how Lucy saw things down the road.

“For me,” she questioned, “or for... us?”

“Either.” He would not force her into carrying on with their current relationship, not even hypothetically.

“We stop Rittenhouse,” Lucy imagined. “I bring my sister back. We save your family. You’re not a wanted man anymore. And then we rest, Flynn.” They deserved it. “Maybe we...” She let her hand brush over his shoulder and down his chest before resting there, over his heart. “Maybe we see what’s between us when there’s nothing between us.” Lucy allowed for the possibility that they would not part ways when all was said and done.

Flynn shuffled across the foot of space between them and kissed her. He enjoyed kissing her, this woman who knew everything he had become and accepted it. Lucy was too good for him, and Flynn prayed she never realized that. “Sounds good,” he spoke against her lips. In a perfect world, they would already be there. Lucy wanted to deny the reality that kept them away from it.

“We could just... stay here,” she suggested, a whispered sentence said in a quiet volume so that it might evade immediate refusal. “Stay here all day, order... room service, lay in bed. And you can sleep as- as long as you need.”

Flynn needed to sleep for more than one day. He needed at least a week of rest until he could feel human again. And it was tempting. She was tempting. Nothing would proceed unless he returned to his hideout and took the _Mothership_  to the past again. Lucy would not be called away. Progress hinged on Flynn getting out of bed. They could remain there forever and not be interrupted by outward obligation. That was what Lucy believed. Flynn’s duty, however, never left. His job was not an outside force. It was not a phone call. He carried it with him. It was in the room.

“When all of this is over,” he said, and he took special care to assign no promise to it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My new favorite thing is imagining Lucy wearing Flynn’s shirt. =w= I think it’s just so cute when girls wear their fella’s shirts that are too big for them. So cute.
> 
> Look, I wrote one from Flynn’s POV!


	7. Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: "Can I kiss you?"

“You can’t keep me here,” Lucy contested.

“No,” Flynn unexpectedly agreed, “you’re free to go.” He waved his hand, dismissing her.

Lucy stood and when she did, she saw out the window, saw the burning architecture of Atlanta, Georgia and the clouds of black smoke which hung over the city like a ceiling of wrath. The house she and Flynn were in was far enough away that it touched no other buildings and was safe from spreading fire or aggregated violence. Danger was assured outside. Indoors, it was nothing but a groundless fear. Despite any bad blood or past misunderstandings, Lucy did feel safe with Flynn. She knew he would not knowingly allow harm to befall her. She hoped that. Lucy sat back down.

“Your choice,” he noted, making certain they each remembered the distinction.

Flynn paid her little mind as he continued unpacking and assembling the numerous components of his rifle. He knew Lucy would not try attacking him, or perhaps he optimistically assumed it. He laid each part on the bed before picking it up, calibrating it, and snapping it into place.

“Who’s that supposed to be for?” Lucy questioned. She spoke with curt, feigned disinterest, as if the target were not a primary concern.

“Funny you should ask,” Flynn replied with a sarcastic smile. “I was just about to tell you my entire plan so you can get in my way or try to talk me out of it.” He rolled his eyes and carefully set the assembled sniper rifle on the bed.

“Someone comes near here,” Lucy presumed, “walks... by this house. You’re going to shoot them. A general maybe, a captain, a soldier... Union or... Confederate.”

Flynn said nothing. Lucy was dangerous with any scrap of information in her. She unraveled his plots with little more than chance keywords. So he gave her none with which to work.

“You sure you don’t want to help save all those people?” he asked, a mockery. Screams were too far away to be heard, but soldiers and civilians ran like chaotic ants from a trampled colony. “Put out some of the fires maybe.”

She could not. “They’re...” It was a disgusting, loathsome reality. It was history. “These people are supposed to die. If we interfere...” More casualties like Amy might never be born.

“You warned Lincoln,” Flynn recalled from the assassination, “tried to... You tried to warn him.”

“Please stop,” she asked.

“It’s not always easy,” he said, and he was sympathetic, “deciding who lives, who dies. How do you measure something like that?”

“How do you?” Lucy retorted, pointing out the man’s vocation as an emissary of death.

“Like I said,” he murmured, and he could not look her in the eye, “it isn’t easy.”

A cannon boomed and thundered, and Lucy flinched. She covered her ears.

Flynn stood and approached her. Lucy retreated from his intentions, but all he did was pull her hands away so she could hear him. Lucy snatched them from his grasp. “This house won’t be hit,” he assured her. “Did my homework.” He tapped his temple as a sign of knowledge and aforethought. It was no accident that he chose their current station.

Flynn left her to stand beside and stare outside the window.

“You were a soldier,” Lucy chanced saying. “Your file, your… NSA file, you fought. Croatia, Bosnia, Kosovo, Somalia, Iraq.” There were more wars than she cared to think about being in one person’s lifetime. “You’re… used to this sort of thing?”

Flynn was silent. Lucy thought he had no desire to discuss his past. He did not, but he answered her question. “No,” he said after a moment, “it isn’t the sort of thing you get used to.”

“You’re still better at it than me,” Lucy pointed out. He did not jump at every round of artillery.

Flynn turned further away from her. He placed a hand on either side of the window sill. He peered into the Hell on Earth of a Civil War. “It’s a useful skill,” he told her. “Doesn’t mean it’s a good one.”

Lucy sat in a wooden chair on a hand-stitched cushion and watched Flynn watch the battle outside. She stood. Her shoes knocked against the hardwood floor of the two story house. She came behind him but could not look out the window quite so easily as Flynn. Her hand hovered and hesitated in the air before touching his shoulder. He did not flinch. Lucy grabbed a handful of his sleeve and pulled. “Leave it,” she urged. Neither of them needed to look.

Flynn’s hands fell down the sides of the window and dropped. He let Lucy drag him away. She moved Flynn to the bed and he sat. There was little to do while they waited— waited for what, for whom, Lucy had no idea. She sat back down in her chair near the bed.

“What exactly is your opinion of me, Lucy?” Flynn inquired.

“What?”

He nodded his head to the side in a little shrug. “It’s an honest, simple question, isn’t it?” he said. “Surely you have some thoughts by now, don’t you?”

Lucy considered her feelings for him, contradictory and complicated as they were. “An honest question,” she allowed, “but not… simple.” Nothing was simple with Flynn. Nothing ever went the way it was imagined. He was the most complex individual she had ever met, without equal or contender. He was intelligent, emotional, driven. Everything he was burned with passion, and even if ill-used, that passion inspired. It intimidated. “I don’t hate you,” was the best conclusion she could arrive at off the top of her head.

“That’s a start,” he said, and he seemed momentarily satisfied by the ambivalent reply. “You want me to make it easier,” he assumed, “easier to, uh, like… me.”

Confession to his analysis would be an odd line to draw in the sand. It would be a detrimental thing to lie about. No harm came from telling the truth. If anything, it stood greater chance of pressuring him into the mindset of partnership, a place where he was obligated to hear her out. “I do, yes,” Lucy confirmed.

“And I wish it was easier to like you,” Flynn admitted. He did regardless. He could not hate her. He could not dislike her. “You, uh…” He licked his lip. “You’re not what I expected, what I… what I needed.”

“I’d apologize,” Lucy sighed, “but…”

“Well, you can’t exactly apologize for being yourself.” Flynn understood, and yet he wanted to change her. He situated on the bed until his long legs were up off the floor and his back was against the headboard. How at ease he managed to look with a rifle as his bedmate.

“You always talk while you’re waiting to assassinate someone?” Lucy asked, and she was curious how he could behave so calmly. A gunshot rang near the house. A second one answered. They exchanged the noise back and forth until one stopped.

“Don’t usually have company,” Flynn replied.

His comment reminded her. “Thank you,” she begrudgingly stated, “for... pulling me out of the street.” It was pandemonium outside, and the first solid, familiar comfort Lucy felt in that war zone was Flynn’s hand on her arm and his voice in her ear.

“You’re welcome,” he said. And if it sounded more like, “I couldn’t just leave you there,” Lucy blamed her imagination.

They quickly ran out of things to say, or rather, they burned through topics they wanted to discuss.

A cannon fired again— closer— and the entire house shook. A picture frame fell off a table. The glass shattered at Lucy’s feet. She jumped up and walked away from it.

“You said this house isn’t hit!” she exclaimed.

“It isn’t,” he defended.

“Just because it’s- it’s standing at the end,” Lucy argued, “doesn’t mean that we’ll be safe in here.” Flynn was cool and collected, and what should have been encouragement to Lucy only made her irate, envious. “How the hell can you be so calm?”

Flynn shook his head. “We live or we die,” he said, and somehow he took solace from their limited options.

“I don’t- I don’t...” Lucy paced. She put a hand against her mouth and breathed deeply, purposefully against it. She felt a sickening lack of control. “I don’t want to die here.”

“Then don’t.” Flynn was confident that if they remained within the house they would make it through unharmed.

“Wyatt,” Lucy worried, “Wyatt and Rufus, they’re out there somewhere, and I—”

“You think, what, you’re all that stands between them and a bullet?” he said. “You walk out that door, Lucy, and all you do is put three people at risk instead of two.” Hers was the very life he refused to leave to chance, but he did not say so out loud. He did not have to. They both knew it. Lucy was free to go, as he said, but he would make a strong argument for her staying there if need be.

Another boom.

Lucy made an unintentional sobbing sound in her throat. She was not made for this. She was not supposed to be here. She turned away and covered her eyes.

The bed squeaked. Flynn’s shoes tapped against the floor: tap, tap, tap. He came up behind Lucy. He waited without movement. He was nothing but a presence behind her, a figure blocking and dispelling empty space.

His hands were so big and strong on her arms. He turned her around, and Lucy— despite her every instinct to the contrary— stepped forward. She grabbed handfuls of his shirt and buried her face against his chest. Gradually, Flynn’s grip moved from her arms to her back. He enveloped her. He held her as he could tell she needed but would never ask for, not from him. Flynn was firm and tangible against her, around her.

“I used to be afraid of thunder,” he uttered, confided, “as a boy.” His tone was lighter and more carefree around the memory. “I’d, uh, get in bed with my parents.” Seeking comfort from thunderstorms was such a staple of childhood that Lucy could not help but see Flynn as human, as a man who existed before death and destruction. He was untouched once.

Lucy pulled back just enough that she would not mumble into his shirt and lose all intelligibility. “Why are you telling me this?” There was only one reason for it: kindness.

“Don’t know,” he answered, and maybe he was telling the truth. “Come here.” Flynn did not let go and gave Lucy no choice. He walked them backwards. With one hand, he grabbed the rifle and leaned down to slide it under the bed. Effortlessly, he picked her up. Lucy’s world shifted and spun around as if she weighed nothing. Flynn sat back against the headboard again. Lucy was beside him and leaned against him. Her head was on his shoulder. Flynn kept an arm around her, and it was a ground which warded off anxiety. “Sun’s setting soon,” Flynn said. “Tell me what that means, Lucy.” He encouraged her mind to embrace the hard facts of history. “Hm?”

She smiled. It was not made of happiness, but there was relief. “Uh, the...” Lucy gestured with her hand, and her fingertips thumped against Flynn’s chest. “The, uh, battle stops,” she was grateful to say. “The Confederates, they abandon the city. They retreat. After that, it’s mostly over. General Sherman captures Atlanta and uses it as his base for the next two months. It was considered a major victory for the Union. It... led to Lincoln being re-elected.” Lucy stopped, suddenly hit by the sensation that she was telling too much, betraying too much. Though certainly, Flynn knew everything already. He would not go to the past without proper research.

“Why’d you stop?” Flynn asked, saying it as if he had not already guessed.

“Because I...” Lucy picked up her head to speak but stopped almost immediately. They were very close. Flynn’s eyes were very green. “Because I, uh... I...” For the first time, the conceivable intimacy of the situation occurred to her. “I...”

“You?” Flynn said with a smirk, prompting her to continue. His teasing banter helped Lucy find her voice.

“Because, honestly, I don’t think I need to give you any more—”

Boom.

Crash.

The house trembled and rattled.

Lucy’s arms wrapped around Flynn’s neck. She clung to him, squeezed him. “Damn it!” she yelled, belatedly realizing that she did so right in Flynn’s ear. She pulled back and sat up. Once more, they faced each other, closer now because Lucy would not release her arms from around him. “I hate... war.”

Flynn nodded his head and it brought him nearer. “Me too,” he confessed. War gave him purpose long ago, but he had found a new one in his family. With them gone, he returned to the life he knew, the one that would get them back. What a sad man.

“I don’t hate you,” Lucy said. It felt necessary to repeat herself. The words did not change, but the motivation behind them was less indifferent, more caring. Flynn understood what she meant.

He looked into Lucy’s eyes. It was intense, like the rest of him. Flynn did nothing halfway. A mere glance from him was intimate with all it saw and all it brought. Flynn looked into Lucy like he could almost read her thoughts, and in exchange, he exposed his every sadness, vulnerability, and doubt. They were written plainly on his face.

The air between them was heavy and expectant. Time slowed as if it were waiting for something to happen. Suspense hung in the atmosphere like humidity before a summer storm. They each tried to interpret what that undeniable charge could mean.

“May I kiss you?”

“I don’t really— What?” Lucy heard that wrong.

“May I,” Flynn leaned in closer, “kiss you, Lucy?”

“Are you- you- you, uh…” Lucy cleared her throat. “You always this polite about it?” She laughed. It was forced and nervous and perfectly aware of the fact that she was making a tense situation more so.

Flynn only grinned. “It has been awhile since I’ve had to be,” he said, “but yes. I try to anyway.”

To the extent of Lucy’s very limited knowledge, Flynn had kissed no one since his wife, and they were together for years. He was out of practice with first kisses.

“I don’t… I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s a yes or no answer, Lucy,” he pointed out, making the decision simpler for her.

“Is this supposed to... get my mind off everything?” she asked. She did not know the many tricks of his lifestyle, but it had great potential to distract. How could she hope to think of anything else if she let herself kiss Garcia Flynn?

“No.” Drawing her attention from the battle was a side-effect, not the intention.

“Oh.” Flynn wanted to kiss her. It was as simple and as complicated as that. “I don’t… know...” Lucy did not know if she felt the same.

“You don’t have to say yes,” Flynn whispered, taking pressure from Lucy, removing the weight of obligation. Flynn was bigger than her, stronger than her. He held all physical advantage in a disagreement and would win. But he was genuinely considerate in his request. Lucy could say no. Flynn was a gentleman when he wanted to be.

Lucy did not hate Flynn. She liked him.

Sometimes actions were easier than words, easier than stumbling over a verbal assent. Lucy kissed Flynn. She took initiative and kissed him. Their relationship was already dysfunctional. How much more harm could one kiss accomplish?

Except it was not one kiss.

Flynn’s lips were slightly dry from him licking them so often. His stubble scratched at Lucy’s skin. It was not unpleasant though. It was a feeling, a physical feeling she could not ignore. It was an experience. It was every unnameable emotion between them that Lucy could never identify. Flynn’s lips pushed against hers, his hands touched her neck and messed her hair, and Lucy felt the answer to each spark of attraction she had been unable to explain a minute prior. That was one kiss. Then Flynn pulled his head back, being satisfied for the moment and not wanting to appear too eager.

Lucy followed him. She was an inquisitive woman with a questing mind, was she not? Clarification was upon her and what she so briefly received could not suffice in properly addressing it. She kissed Flynn again to make sense of it all. A first kiss would always entice with its unprecedented nature. There was nothing concrete there. A second kiss upended the hurdle of initial shock. That was where conclusions laid. Flynn met and matched her enthusiasm.

Though explorative, their kiss was close-mouthed and somewhat sweet, fond. It embodied affection and intrigue without stooping to the far more decipherable concepts of passion or lust. Flynn kissed Lucy and Lucy kissed Flynn because of who the other was, not for what they wanted to do to them. There was something new and fascinating in kissing someone only for the sake of kissing them. Every interaction and every emotion between them came to culmination in this admittance to wanting something more than an antagonistic working relationship.

Lucy’s hands touched his tired face. Her thumb rubbed tenderly against his cheek. Flynn was almost afraid to touch her by comparison. He did, but upon her neck, her shoulders, her face, his presence was unsure and featherlight, lacking every ounce of strength she knew he possessed. There was no place for it in what they were doing. Flynn strove to be gentle with Lucy, to show another side of himself. He did not want her to regret her decision, to find in him nothing but brutality. Lucy saw the dormant tenderness. She felt it.

The kissed. They parted. They came together again, off and on until Flynn drew his head back too far for Lucy to pursue. He looked at her in a haze, as if expecting the past few minutes to be corrected by a sudden and swift reality. He expected Lucy to take it all back and claim it was a mistake. She said nothing. She let her hands rest on his shoulders, then she sat back on the bed.

“Shelling’s stopped,” Flynn said, and he seemed confident in his assessment. He judged war like an old sailor gauged the winds and weather. He pointed out the window and it was night.

“For now,” Lucy sighed. “Early in the morning, General Hood, he blows his own munitions to keep them out of the Union’s hands. Explosions last for... hours. The fire alone...” It was an excessively reckless, manmade conflagration. She shook her head.

“You’re welcome to stay through the night,” Flynn encouraged. She would be safe there until the proper surrender of Atlanta. The only blight upon the sentiment was when he added, “But I will be tying you to a chair and gagging you when it comes time for me to do what needs to be done.” He would not risk her stopping him or warning the target.

Lucy moved to the side of the bed and brought her feet to the floor, twisting her cotton skirt around her legs. “You end all your dates that way?” she muttered, and though she had no intention of him actually hearing it, Flynn grinned.

“Was this supposed to be a date?”

“No,” Lucy scoffed, and obviously it was not. “No. But if, you know... it was—” it was not— “wouldn’t exactly be my worst.” That spoke more on her dating history than anything to do with Garcia Flynn. She stood and straightened the many pleats of her long skirt. She looked at it and not Flynn when she spoke. “I should go.” When Lucy glanced up, he was frowning, displeased by her decision. “I need to- to... find Wyatt and Rufus,” she insisted, “before it starts again.” She dropped her eyes again, embarrassed by the clarification she felt required to add. “It’s not because of...” She could not say. “I mean, it was really... You- _You_  were really...” There was no word to describe their kiss without digging herself further into a hole. “You know?”

Flynn got out of bed and moved right in front of her. Lucy stared at his shoes until he put a finger beneath her chin and nudged her head up. “Mm,” he said, a simple hum, before he kissed her one last time. It ended more quickly than the others and left her wanting more. Perhaps that was the point. Lucy’s eyes opened from it slowly, not accepting the end. Flynn held her face in his hands. His thumbs sweetly traced her cheeks. “Just,” he sighed, “watch where you’re going out there.” He took his hands from her and turned away to recover his rifle from under the bed. “I’d go with you, of course, but...”

“You don’t want to get in a shootout with Wyatt,” she finished, guessing at his motivation, or lack thereof.

“Uh, no, not particularly,” he confirmed. “And maybe don’t lead them back here either?”

“I can’t just...” Letting Flynn exact his plan was the very thing she was supposed to prevent. But bringing Wyatt to kill him was not what she wanted either. One of them could be prevented in other ways. “Okay,” she decided, and she would come up with an alternative to save Flynn’s target. “I won’t.”

“Thank you,” Flynn said, then he nodded his head at the door, implying that she leave. He gave no further warning of safety. Flynn always trusted Lucy to look after herself.

The streets flooded with Union soldiers, and Lucy did her best to stay out of their way and look inconspicuous. It took almost an hour to find Wyatt and Rufus, and when she did, they immediately asked where she disappeared to. She was sworn against the truth and attempted another version of it, but they could tell she was hiding something. Lucy did not want to take them to Flynn, but fresh air and firsthand sight of the battle-wounded cleared her head. She knew things could only turn worse— for one side of the war or the other— if Flynn killed someone who was supposed to live. Wyatt and Rufus convinced her.

When they returned to the house, however, Flynn was gone without a trace. He knew and anticipated that, whether willing or coaxed, Lucy would lead the team back there to stop him.

“He’s gone,” she said. They liked each other, kissed each other, but they did not trust each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first instinct was to set this during 1.10, but the best window for it would have been some time during the night between the two days. And that means it would occur before the conversation they have with the horses. I didn’t want them kissing before Lucy has confirmation that Flynn has already ended things with his wife-- in his mind. So instead... here. Have a prompt set during the Civil War.
> 
> Hah hah. This was so mushy. My bad. lol. I feel like I wanted this to be better than I ended up writing. Dang. Such a good prompt too. I could have done better.


	8. Protection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: “I don't need your protection.”

A branch snapped. Leaves rustled. Lucy spun around, looking for the source of the noise. She hoped for an animal. She prepared for a human.

“Who’s there?” Lucy spoke. She tried to sound strong and confident, but in that, she failed. So instead, she played up her perceived weakness. “I’m... I’m unarmed.”

“Well,” returned a familiar voice, “that was a rather stupid thing to admit.”

Lucy sighed. She let bald relief hide behind a mask of irritation. “Come out, Flynn.”

Leaves crunched beneath Flynn’s feet as he came from behind a wide tree. He stepped onto the slightly worn path and walked towards her, hands casually behind his back. “You know,” he said, “there are about, oh, a hundred folktales about a woman lost and alone in the woods. The good news is _I think_  it ends well for most of them.”

“I’m not lost,” Lucy lied.

“No?” he challenged.

“It’s Ohio,” she asserted, “in the... War of 1812.”

“I know you know _when_  you are.” Flynn did not doubt. He smirked. “But location... you can’t do better than ‘Ohio,’ can you?”

“Toledo,” Lucy stated, proving herself a little better than he thought, “or it will be part of Toledo one day.” In the time they currently occupied, the area had not yet been deforested and urbanized. It remained wilderness.

“It’s a little dangerous out here,” Flynn remarked. “More dangerous for a person who goes around announcing they have no weapon. Not that you’d know what to do with a gun if you had one, would you, Lucy?”

“I can handle myself,” she defied, and truly, she had talked herself out of worse situations since they began jumping through time.

“I followed you for about a quarter mile,” Flynn said. “Wonder how much better the Shawnee could do. Well,” he allowed, “that would, of course, be if they observed before attacking. The British,” he considered, “now they would probably let you go, seeing how you are an unarmed woman and all.” He smirked. “I’m curious. What is your plan exactly— you know, aside from throwing yourself at the mercy of America’s current enemies?”

“Fort Meigs, it’s about ten miles southwest of here,” Lucy stated. “Not too far to walk.” It was roughly eleven o’clock in the morning, and she had plenty of daylight to make it there.

“So it is,” Flynn concurred. And simply to tease her, he asked, “Which way is southwest again?”

“It’s...” Lucy looked up and around, but even if the sky were not overcast, the sun’s position was too near its zenith to guess east from west— not that she was an expert in detecting it to begin with. “I came from...” She attempted to point out the direction from which she traveled, but her encounter and conversation with Flynn had her turned around. Trees all looked the same.

“You know,” he offered, saving her a little dignity, “I just so happen to be headed southwest. We could... walk in the same direction maybe.”

Lucy did not want to admit that traveling with Flynn would ease the numerous concerns she had of wandering all alone and with dubious directions. Everyone had strengths. They had weaknesses. Lucy was not too proud to admit that navigation and self-defense were two of her weaknesses.

She consented in an evasive manner. “Do we have to talk?”

“Nope.”

Lucy pursed her lips. “So, uh,” she cleared her throat, “southwest is…”

Flynn pointed. “That way.” He extended his arm and courteously offered her the lead. Lucy walked past him.

Eventually, they fell into step. If Flynn could trek faster with those long legs of his, he kept to Lucy’s pace.

On they went.

Flynn was obediently, almost unnervingly, mute. It was Lucy who ended the imposed silence— an hour or so later. As they walked, she contemplated the odds of coincidence and found, within her scope of knowledge, nothing at Fort Meigs or their general destination worthy of Flynn’s efforts. She made an educated guess. “You weren’t going southwest.”

Flynn was unresponsive for a moment, but eventually he gave her the truth. “No.” He did not like lying to her.

“I don’t…” Lucy felt pitied and weak by the gesture. “I don’t need your protection.”

“Maybe not,” Flynn allowed. He trusted Lucy’s abilities and resourcefulness. “Or maybe you will. What’s that old saying?” he pondered. “How does it go? ‘Better to... have it and not need it than to need it and not have it’?” He smiled and it was charming. Lucy refused to let it affect her.

“Why were you following me?” she asked. “Following me instead of just... walking up to begin with?”

“I was waiting,” Flynn replied, “to see if you were bait. But,” he had realized, “you really are out here on your own, aren’t you?”

“Why would I be bait?” Though Flynn often approached her, Lucy did not consider herself a trap worth his time. He typically had more pressing matters on his schedule.

“Lucy, I assume you’re bait every time I see you alone,” Flynn said. He was exceedingly cautious against being apprehended or terminated. “So I wait, follow you a little, observe you a little. I see just how long you’re left alone.”

“You could always,” she suggested, “not come up to me, you know.”

“What, you don’t enjoy our little conversations?” Flynn chuckled. Their run-ins were a cause of enjoyment for him, but the sentiment was not always returned. Lucy rolled her eyes in answer to the rhetorical question. “It’s important,” he claimed, “that we talk, get to know one another.”

“No,” Lucy quibbled, “you think it’s important that I listen to you and hear your side.” He did not care what she had to say if it was not an agreement to his way of thinking.

“You do know I wish I had the... luxury to see your side, don’t you?” Flynn responded. “But what you want is for nothing to change, and that, obviously, means nothing would change. You have to admit that something needs to be done... about Rittenhouse.”

“I don’t have to do anything,” Lucy refused.

Flynn frowned. “No,” he said, “but wouldn’t it be nice if you made your damn choice already?” She infuriated him, first with her refusal to listen and now with her insistence to sit upon the fence and slowly contemplate two options. “It can’t stay the same forever, Lucy.” He spoke about the status quo, about Rittenhouse, and about the great magnitude of history. Something had to give. “They’ll ruin the world worse than I ever could. They already have.”

Lucy said nothing. Arguing the point felt obligatory but would be a lie. She knew he was right. It was only his methodology she disagreed with so vehemently, and that she did not want to dispute over and over again, not when they had almost two hours of walking left. She let Flynn have the last word.

Trees grew scarce ahead before ending completely. The smell of the air changed. The dirt turned lighter and gritty. They walked onto sand and stood in front of a creek. It was not a very deep body of water. Being crystal clear down to its bed, Lucy placed the most substantial depth at two feet— and only in one area. It was wide, however, more than a dozen yards across.

Flynn had no troubles if they decided to pass. His waterproof boots went all the way up to the knees of his long legs. Lucy’s shoes, however (barely made for travel at all), stopped just above her ankle. She looked upstream and downstream but saw no variation in the creek’s width.

“You think it ends somewhere?” she asked.

“Possibly,” Flynn considered, “but we could go miles out of our way finding where. It might even get deeper. Come on.” He jumped off the bank and into the shallow water with a splash. His legs submerged halfway up his shin as he began wading. Quickly, he noticed Lucy was not following. He turned around. “What?”

Lucy lifted her skirt to show Flynn her shoes. “We have a few miles left,” she said. “Walking in wet shoes is...” She would get a blister at the very least, but voicing that concern would make her sound pathetic and whimpering.

Flynn groaned and walked back to the shore. He held out his arms. “Come on,” he said.

“What?” She did not understand what he was asking her to do.

“I’ll carry you across,” he explained in plain terms. “Come on.” Lucy did not move, and she certainly did not jump into his arms. “What,” he sighed, “you think I’ll drop you?”

“No.” He probably would not.

“Then what’s the holdup?” he demanded, and Lucy realized he saw none of the ridiculous implications which came with such a position. He considered none of that silly romanticism, the stories of the strong man carrying his damsel. No, none of that came to his mind. Of course not. To Flynn, they were simply partners, equals, and he was sharing the advantage he brought to the table. Perhaps that was all his entire escort was: a contribution.

Lucy reached out and put her hand in Flynn’s. He pulled her forward with a sudden jerk, and Lucy tumbled, landing in his arms before she could drop into the creek. Flynn moved one arm behind her back, the other behind her bent knees, and Lucy gathered her skirt into a bundle in her lap to keep it from getting wet.

Water sloshed as Flynn waded across the shallow creek. His feet sank into loose sand beneath them, but even with their combined weight, they never went so deep that his legs got wet or his boots flooded.

Lucy watched where they were going instead of looking up at Flynn or acknowledging him at all. But when they were almost halfway across, he adjusted his hold to get a better grip. Lucy, fearing he was dropping her, let out a yelp before latching onto his neck. The bottom of her skirt fell in the water and was soaked. Flynn grunted at the sudden change but said nothing, knowing it was his fault for not warning her. He moved her weight again and continued on.

“You didn’t have to carry me,” Lucy insisted. Slowly, she let go of his neck and picked her skirt out of the water to let it hang and drip.

“Apparently, I don’t have to do a lot of things,” Flynn muttered. “Easier if I do though, isn’t it?”

“And how exactly is going out of your way taking me to a fort supposed to be easier?” Lucy questioned.

Flynn was quiet for a few seconds, not wanting to admit the reason. He did. “Easier on my mind,” he told her. “Not only does it get you out of my way, but now I won’t have to bother with you anymore. I can do what I’m here for without thinking about you out there, dying of a bullet or, uh, an arrow... exposure maybe— if you were out here long enough.”

“Oh,” Lucy murmured, “well, uh, okay then.” She did not know how to react against or even what to think about Flynn worrying over her. It was not exactly surprising, and he was not ashamed. He valued her potential and would protect his investment.

“Going down,” Flynn warned. He turned Lucy around dropped her onto the sandy bank. He came out after her, shaking water off his boots. Sand stuck to them but would fall away as they walked. “That way,” he said, pointing through the trees and urging her to carry on. Lucy went where indicated, and Flynn walked at her side with his arms behind his back.

They were quiet until Lucy broke the silence again. “You know, you put me in danger more often than you ever get me out of it,” she reminded. Because clearly Flynn forgot.

“You make your choices,” he defended. “If you joined me, if you were at my side, Lucy, we would protect each other all the time. I’d certainly know where to find you when I looked. Or... I make an effort to coddle you, my adversary, and, well... I end up ten miles and three hours out of my way, don’t I?”

“I already said you don’t have to walk me there,” Lucy stated. She did not want to hear about his selflessness the rest of the way.

Flynn stopped.

Lucy walked a few paces before coming back to him, concerned. “Did you hear something?” she whispered.

“No.”

She understood. “Okay,” she said, “all right. Do I get a gun... at least?”

Flynn reached into his jacket and took out a pistol. He did not give it to her but instead stared at the thing, contemplating it. “Are you sure?” he taunted. “I mean, it was made in 2015 after all. Shouldn’t be here for another... two hundred years.” Lucy held out her hand. Flynn turned the gun around and held the barrel, extending the grip to her. Before she could take it, he pulled back. “Do you even know how to shoot?”

Lucy sighed. “You point the gun and you- you squeeze the trigger,” she said. “Not as hard as you and Wyatt make it sound. Aim is... another matter, but most everyone here is still using a flintlock.” A modern pistol had the momentous advantage of accuracy. That was why Flynn typically used one.

“Got a hell of a kickback,” he warned, but he offered the gun to her again and let her take it. “Loud, too. You ever use one?”

It was none of Flynn’s business. It was nothing to brag about. Telling him, however, proved competence. “I shot Jesse James,” she said. “I... I killed him.”

Flynn was first impressed, but then the full breadth of implications dawned on him. He knew Lucy was not a killer, not the one with whom he was acquainting himself. As always, her counterpart from the journal was of an undisclosed temperament. Perhaps she murdered with impunity like him, but Flynn knew the woman before him was no such person. He dipped his head and rubbed at his eyes with thumb and finger. “I, uh, assumed that was Wyatt.”

“No.”

“Okay.” He dropped his hand and nodded his head, absolutely believing her. “There’s some history I’d actually like to hear.” He took a step in the direction they had been traveling, towards Fort Meigs. Under the excuse of a story, Flynn remained in her presence and on her path. But he let Lucy hold the gun that she, by all accounts and obligations, should have aimed at him and fired, shooting him in the back, a repeat of her dishonor.

Lucy dropped the gun down to her side. She caught up with Flynn in a few quick steps. “What’s to tell?” she said. “You... saved Jesse James, and then he killed nearly a dozen people. He needed to be stopped.”

“There is always something to tell,” Flynn asserted. “You’re a killer, Lucy, and it’s my fault. Are you sure you don’t want to... yell at me?”

She did. “No.”

He hesitated before suggesting, “Talk about it maybe?”

Lucy scoffed. “Why would I want to talk about it with you?”

“Fair enough,” Flynn yielded. He did not criticize Lucy for her recalcitrance. They were not friends, or if they were, it was too loose an application of the term to be considered confidants. “But I do understand.”

“How?” She could not swallow such an extraordinary claim.

“Anybody that’s ever killed did it for the first time once,” he pointed out. “I’ve been where you are, Lucy. Even now,” he sighed, “I’d rather not do it.” He wanted her to believe that, but he would not press it until she, inevitably, stopped him from talking.

“Then don’t.”

Flynn clicked his tongue. “That’s not an option either, I’m afraid.” He stared at the overgrown path beneath their treading feet. “But if someone has to do it,” he reasoned, “why not the man with nothing to lose?”

“There is always something to lose,” Lucy told him, pleaded with him.

He considered it but shook his head. “Not anymore.” There were no conditional possibilities to keep him from every necessary evil.

“You’ll lose me,” Lucy said. “Isn’t that what you want?” It was what he needed. “How can I... come with you when you... when you kill people? You know I can’t get behind that.”

“You join me or you don’t,” Flynn had come to accept. “I’m tired of trying to convince you. Sometimes you’re more trouble than you’ll ever be worth.” Their current trip was proof of it.

“You don’t believe that,” Lucy disputed. He was lying to himself.

Flynn shrugged. “I don’t disbelieve it.” And indeed Lucy had caused him much difficulty over the last few months. “I’m certain you have no idea what it’s like when the world wants nothing to do with you, Lucy, but it is... isolating.” Flynn spoke with indifference but could not completely conceal that his reality upset him. “You’re just one more loss, nothing special at all, are you?”

“I don’t,” she could barely confess it, “not... want anything to do with you, Flynn.” For better or for worse, he was in her life now, and she did not entirely want him gone. “I’m still here, aren’t I?” She could have fled from him at any time. “I know you don’t want to hurt me, not really. You are not a lost cause.” Only he considered himself thus. “And you have something to lose.” Lucy was that something, but she did not repeat herself to say it.

Flynn was mum in reply. He either contemplated what she said or else did not want to expend the effort to continue arguing.

Lucy did not tell him to leave her alone again. In her, Flynn had something to lose and to protect: not only her safety, but her opinion as well. Who was she to insist he had a purpose only to deny its usefulness?

The last leg of their journey was uneventful. It was quiet between, but in that their previous awkwardness was lessened. They endured a companionable silence, not saying much outside of, “Thank you,” whenever Flynn pulled back a branch or assisted in some other way that was not beyond Lucy’s own capabilities. He wanted to help, to justify his presence.

They arrived at the fort. It was not much too look at, being more wall than anything, but it stood strong and did not fall the entire war. Lucy looked at the open field it sat upon as a tactical advantage. Enemies could be seen coming from a mile away, and thus none would be between where they stood and her final goal. Flynn brought her through potential danger and to the doorstep of the fort.

“I can take it from here,” Lucy said, and he nodded in agreement. “Uh, I believe this... is... yours.” She gave Flynn’s gun back to him. He checked the safety before returning it to his concealed holster. “You didn’t have to walk me here,” Lucy said one final time.

“No,” Flynn conceded, “I really didn’t.” They passed through the forest unmolested. By and large, he was unnecessary.

“But, uh…” Lucy looked around and then down. When she spoke, she mumbled. “Better to have it and not need it… right?” She picked up her head and Flynn was almost smiling. He was contented by such hooded appreciation. Lucy decided the least she could do was be more overt with her gratitude. She stuck out her hand with horribly awkward formality. “Thank you… Flynn.”

He hesitated for a second but participated in the amicable, almost friendly, handshake. Flynn’s hand was large against Lucy’s. The fingers were so long they wrapped around and nearly eclipsed the back of her hand. His grip was firm but somehow delicate, and then it was gone. “You’re welcome, Lucy.” He smiled more broadly, and then he nodded at the fort. “Go,” he said. “I’ll wait here ‘til you’re inside.”

Lucy stepped out of the trees and began walking the gradual hill down to the field. She stumbled only once— when she looked back at Flynn— but recovered herself without falling. She checked his presence a total of four times. For the first three, he was there, by the tree, where she left him. The fourth turn came after the gates opened and before she entered. Lucy looked back but Flynn was gone. She would be safe inside the fort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flynn carrying Lucy is a very important visual to me. ♥


	9. Bleeding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: “If we’d done this my way, I wouldn’t be bleeding.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Obviously, warning for blood.

Flynn’s weight, what of it Lucy could support, was bearing down on her shoulders and threatening to knock her over. He was a big man, a heavy man. Knowing this, he tried to carry himself as much as possible but needed help past his capabilities.

“In there,” he said, indicating a door which stood ajar.

Lucy kicked it open and walked them inside. The entire building was deserted. It was some old inn or large house, falling in on itself, weighed down with time and without being propped up by regular maintenance. The damp plaster walls cracked and smelled of mildew. The floor was dirt. The shattered window housed a bird’s nest on its shelf, seemingly empty beneath the light of their oil lantern. There was a bed. Flynn leaned against the wall with all his weight while Lucy flipped the dirty old mattress and laid her cloak out over it.

Flynn fell onto the bed. Wood creaked like it wanted to give out. He tried to take off his jacket, but hissed when his arms went too far back. Lucy helped him out of it and his shoulder holster. She began undoing the buttons of his shirt before he did those himself. With more difficulty, she pulled off his undershirt as well. The rainy, nighttime weather was too cool to go shirtless but they had a more pressing priority above his comfort.

“Damn antiquated bullet,” Flynn muttered. He pushed in on his stomach, feeling around for the projectile. “Still in there,” he confirmed. He kept pressure on the trickling wound. His hand laid against a canvas of smeared blood, dark in the low light.

“Older model guns didn’t have much accuracy or strength,” Lucy rambled, knowing she was rambling. Advancements in weapons were always being made, but 1886 still fell shy of any substantial breakthroughs. “He was... forty feet away, give or take. The bullet didn’t have enough force to go through.”

“Shut up,” Flynn commanded. He did not need nor want a history lesson. Angrily, he hissed, “If we’d done this my way, I wouldn’t be bleeding.” He would not allow her to forget it for a very long time.

“No,” Lucy agreed, “but a... dozen other people would be.” Cautiously, she joined him on the bed. It did not buckle beneath their combined weight. She tried to pull his hand away from the gunshot, but he would not budge. “Let me look at it or you can- can bleed out under your hand,” she threatened.

“What do you know about first aid?” Flynn grumbled.

“Next to nothing,” Lucy admitted, “but I can look at it a hell of a lot better than you.” Flynn could not argue. To put eyes on the injury, he would have to lean over, which promised to be the most uncomfortable task he could undertake at the moment, despite its usual simplicity. “Just, you know, lay back and walk me through it,” she said, “yeah?”

Flynn yielded to her request, letting practicality overtake his stubbornness and anger. He kept his hand pressing on the injury as Lucy helped him down. Twisting and moving hurt him. A normal person might have cried or whined. Flynn grunted in his throat but betrayed no further proof of his discomfort.

The bed was short, and Flynn’s tall body went the length of it. His feet nearly hung off the stuffed sack of a mattress but stopped just before it did. Lucy knelt beside him and placed the lamp on the bed. She twisted the knob and raised the wick, giving them greater light. Their small haven filled with an orange glow. Outside, the world was black with night.

“You think they’ll find us?”

“Hopefully not,” Flynn said. He had optimism but no definite answer. “Probably… don’t think we left the city.”

“You did a good thing,” Lucy said, though it pained her to say it. Flynn knew it did. He knew why. He was currently too bitter over his injury not to remark on it.

“I changed history,” he snidely stated. “Last I checked, you still frown on that.”

“You were going to change it either way,” Lucy murmured. She had weighed her options and realized she could not stop Flynn. She could not dissuade him. She barely managed to convince him of an alternative. “At least this way no one had to die.”

“You know—” he resituated and it pained him— “I have to wonder what you’d feel if I had died— if I do die.”

“You’re not… going to die,” Lucy denied. It was a cowardly deflection of his question. She could not answer. She did not know how Flynn’s death would affect her, especially considering the circumstances, but she knew she did not want it.

“I could have,” he argued, “if that Rittenhouse agent actually aimed at me and shot one foot higher.” He was still irritated. His temper would not fade any time soon. “And now, of course, the police think we’re in on the whole thing.”

“I know.”

“I get shot and they decide it’s all an act?” he incredulously demanded.

“They just…” Lucy felt guilty that Flynn cooperating with her and doing the right thing was rewarded thus. “They didn’t understand where you got your information from.”

“Next time,” he swore, “we do it my way.”

Lucy did not agree. Flynn did not expect her to. She would fight his radicalism every time. But for this one, he helped her. She would help him.

“Knife,” Lucy requested, knowing he had one.

Flynn reached into his pants pocket and took out his knife. He opened it and handed it off with a brief warning that it was sharper than it looked.

Lucy lowered the knife to the petticoat beneath her skirt. She began cutting long, wide strips and spoke while she did. “So,” she said, “Rittenhouse... hates... labor unions.”

“Very much so, yes,” he confirmed. It was hardly surprising. They always sought to squash freewill and deny power taken by the people.

“And, of course, work days longer than eight hours keep people too exhausted to do anything but work and rest.” Between college and her occasional long shift at the university, Lucy knew how it felt to be too tired to do anything other than sleep. “I can… see why Rittenhouse turned a peaceful strike like the Haymarket affair into a riot. Anarchists bomb police at the rally and,” she sighed, “everything else falls apart. Unions and immigrants take a long time to bounce back.”

“They weren’t anarchists,” Flynn muttered.

“I know,” Lucy said. “And I know you wanted to kill them yourself. But you tipped off the police instead, distracted them from ending the protest early. You- You let Fielden finish his speech.” All were important. All were less bloody than what Flynn wanted. The biggest downside was his injury and the Chicago police still looking for them.

Lucy finished cutting enough strips of white cotton to wrap around Flynn’s abdomen several times. She put them on the bed, tossed over his legs.

Slowly and with trust, Flynn raised his hand off his wound for Lucy to examine. She swallowed nervously and attempted conversation to take Flynn’s mind off the situation, though there was a very good chance she was more on edge than him. “When I was little,” she said, “I don’t know, around eight or nine, I read about Florence Nightingale. She was... amazing. She’s out there right now— not in wars anymore, but... establishing modern nursing as we know it today, fighting for a woman’s right to practice medicine. I was so inspired by her growing up that I wanted to be a nurse.”

Flynn was actually surprised. “I didn’t know that,” he confessed. He knew so much of her life from the journal that anything new stood out.

“I wanted to be,” Lucy reiterated, “but... unfortunately...” She looked again at the bleeding hole in Flynn’s stomach and felt lightheaded. “I tend to, uh, faint... a little.”

“Damn it, Lucy,” Flynn groaned. He returned his hand to the injury and blocked it from sight. The last thing he needed was for Lucy to lose consciousness.

“No,” she insisted, determined, “I can do this. I promise.” He did not believe her. “Please,” she begged. “I want to help you. It’s my fault.” Flynn was right about that, and feeding his pride had the potential of appeasement. “You did it my way when you didn’t have to. Thank you, Flynn, really. You got this because of me, so please, let me help.”

“I don’t _need_  a doctor who faints at the sight of a little blood,” he growled.

“I do not faint at blood,” Lucy objected. “Why do men think women faint at blood?” It was an utterly ridiculous stereotype. “It’s because I can... I see inside you—” She gagged but tried to hide it behind her hand. “I’m fine.”

Flynn weighed each option and knew there was little chance he could patch himself. He would if it became necessary. “You get one chance,” he warned. If Lucy threw up or fainted, she was out.

“Okay,” she agreed, and she would make the most of her chance. She would take responsibility and prove herself useful.

Flynn strained to put his arms behind his head, cushioning it like a pillow. The menial action pained him, but it pulled his stomach taught. It got his arms up out of the way so Lucy could work. Despite the hole, and the blood, and the overall critical circumstances, the picture he made was casual and at ease. It was— a concept admitted only in Lucy’s own mind— attractive. Flynn was attractive. She could safely and secretively acknowledge that or else call herself a liar. She had eyes after all.

“You’ll have to look inside,” Flynn told Lucy, rousing her from her thoughts.

“For the bullet,” she assumed.

“I don’t care if you get that out or not,” he said. “Bullet practically sterilizes itself coming out of the barrel. No, not the problem. But my shirt,” he winced, “if it... pushed any fabric from my shirt inside, I’ll get infected.” He sighed. “I’m very likely to regardless… without any… antiseptic, but get the shirt out either way.”

“I can do that,” Lucy said, and she hoped she could.

The small hat on her head was kept in place by two sharp hatpins. Lucy pulled them out and set her hat aside. She removed the glass cover from their lantern and began heating them, sanitizing them, over the flame.

Flynn idly watched her for a moment, but then he had to ask. “What are you doing?”

“What,” Lucy replied, “you don’t like Chinese food?” She pulled the eight inch pins from the fire and made a grabbing motion, as with chopsticks. “We don’t have any tweezers, and this is the next best thing.”

He smirked, pleased and amused by her resourcefulness. “Go on then.”

Lucy nodded her head and steeled her nerves. The blood had mostly stopped, but she knew if Flynn kept moving, it would flow again. “And you’re sure you don’t want me taking the bullet out?” Lucy questioned, making certain of the odd request.

“Only if it’s near the surface,” Flynn instructed. “All its damage is already done. You’ll do more digging around for it than if you just leave the damn thing alone.”

“Okay, all right,” she surrendered. “Bullet stays in.”

Lucy’s right hand held the hatpin tweezers. With her left, she touched Flynn’s bare stomach. The blood was wet or dry or a sticky in-between. Lucy probed around the wound, pressing gently until she felt the bullet. “It’s about three inches from the hole,” she informed. The usually minuscule measurement meant so much more when it was the distance to corral a bullet within the human body.

“Leave it,” Flynn decided. He would collect the bullet later with modern day supplies. “Look for any fabric.”

Lucy glanced at the hole. “Too dark,” she said. The lantern lit the room but not his insides.

Flynn reached into his other pocket and took out his phone. He turned on the bright flashlight. Lucy glared disapprovingly at him for bringing the device, but he did not care. Flynn held the phone above his stomach. Lucy put her hand over his, directing where she needed it to be.

The skin was slightly raised around the irregular hole, burned by the hot bullet. The blood outside and inside was distracting. Lucy wished she had clean water to wipe it away. She used a gentle touch and dabbed with one of the bandage strips she made. It cleaned precious little.

Lucy took a deep breath for courage and began poking the insides of her not-enemy. She searched for a minute or two until, “I see something.” The white scrap of shirt was saturated by the blood in which it swam, but the differing texture stood out.

“Get it.”

“I am, I am,” Lucy stated, though her resolve was failing. All around the bit of fabric was a slowly receding pool of blood, and behind that was the internal image of Flynn’s abdomen. The view was limited inside a hole half-an-inch wide, yet it perturbed her. Lucy could barely keep her wits together. She took another breath, and then she bit her tongue. The pain grounded her.

Lucy tried to grab the scrap with her crude tool. One failed attempt, two, three. On the sixth try, she got it. Carefully, she kept the pins together and dragged the fabric out of him.

“Let me see,” Flynn said. Lucy held the recovered fabric in front of his face. He examined it with obsessive scrutiny. The tiny piece of cotton was barely a centimeter, but he was satisfied. “I think that’s all.” Hopefully, no more was left inside him.

Lucy pulled back her hatpins and inspected the sliver of shirt. How harmless it seemed. “This could have killed you?”

“Still might,” he retorted. Flynn would not let her guilt dissolve so easily.

“Bleeding’s stopped,” Lucy told him. “Probably, you know, uh, avoid any hand-to-hand combat or… assassination attempts.”

“Yes, thank you, Nurse Nightingale,” Flynn muttered.

“You’re going to be fine,” Lucy assured.

“I know I am,” Flynn stated, and despite antagonizing her, he did not doubt it. “I have too much to do. You think I’m going to let myself die like this?” He would fight for life tooth and nail. No one would take it from him. Flynn’s gaze lingered on Lucy’s face, then it strayed down. “The pin,” he asked, “on your shirt.”

Lucy looked at the decorative brooch pinned to the breast of her blouse. She quickly unfastened the accessory and gave it to him. Flynn turned it over in his hands, studying it, before breaking the sharp metal pin off the back. He held it over the oil lamp, sanitizing his makeshift safety pin. When he was satisfied, Flynn let it cool and brought it to his stomach. He felt around with his free hand until he found the gunshot. Lucy looked away, unable to watch. Flynn grunted behind closed lips as he pierced the skin around the hole and pulled it together.

“No needle and thread,” he lamented. “No stitches.” He would sew himself up as soon as he was able. The pin would hold him together and minimize any pull until then. He held out his hand. “Bandage.” Lucy gave him a strip of cloth and he folded it over several times before pressing it to the wound.

“How do you know so much about... all of this?” she questioned. “First aid. Did you... take some courses?”

“Some,” he said. His eyes lost some of their light as they traveled to a memory. “Some I, uh, picked up firsthand. In war, you know, they might maybe drop a group of you in the middle of nowhere. Barely know each other. Barely know where you’re going, what you’re doing. You get a medic. You befriend the medic,” Flynn shrugged one shoulder, “he might... give you preferential treatment when he has multiple lives to save.”

“That’s horrible,” Lucy criticized.

“That’s survival,” Flynn disagreed. “Not,” he quickly added, “that it ever actually came up, but... sticking to him, I did end up learning a thing or two.” His hand reached out towards her and waved around expectantly. He implied, but did not voice, his need for help. Lucy grabbed his hand with both of hers and pulled him up to sit. Flynn kept the bandage pressed firm against his abdomen. “Tie those together.” He pointed at the strips left over.

Lucy knotted the ends and made one long band. Flynn tried to take it from her but she resisted. “Let me,” she said. He held out for a moment but allowed her to take over. Lucy put her hand over the compress and Flynn let his fall away. She placed one end of the long bandage over it and began wrapping the rest around him, over his back and then to the front again. She made a few laps before quitting, making sure to leave enough excess to tie a little bow. “Good... as... new,” Lucy said. She patted the bandage, and Flynn’s breath caught with a muted whimper. “Sorry! I’m sorry.”

“Barely felt it,” Flynn lied.

Her hand rested more delicately on his injury in silent apology. Flynn did not stop her and so Lucy continued, moving without breaking contact. Her fingers ghosted over warm flesh, delving into the sunken dips of past scars. Some dragged like a scratch or a cut. Others were rounded craters with lighter lines extending off them like rays from the sun. Lucy let her fingertip rest in the middle of one. “You’ve been shot before,” she said. She knew he had been. She underestimated how many times.

“A lot... of them,” he softly spoke, “are from... Rittenhouse, from the night they killed my family, tried to kill me.”

“It looks like they almost did.” Lucy tried to smile as a joke and at their failure but she let it fall back down. There were shots in Flynn’s torso, older than their surgery. There was another in his left shoulder, so near his heart. On the right side of his neck, Lucy recognized Wyatt’s gunshot from so long ago, dealt when Lucy herself was justifiable collateral damage in dropping Flynn. One shot risked both their lives, and the government was amenable to that.

A breeze blew through the busted window. It should have been warm with the timing of early May, but the rainy weather gave the gust a chill.

“Oh!” Lucy realized. “Uh, let’s...” She rooted around in the pile of Flynn’s clothes and found his undershirt. “Let’s get you dressed.” Flynn lifted his arms and Lucy stood so she could slide his shirt over them. When his head popped through, Lucy instinctually smoothed his ruffled hair back into place. She helped him slip into his collared shirt, and when she began buttoning it, he shoved her hands away and did it himself. His hands went down the front, pulling together the cotton that was stained and stiff with blood. Lucy picked up the rest of his belongings.

“That’s enough,” Flynn told her. He did not want his holster or jacket on at the moment. “I need to lie back down.”

“Are you all right?” Lucy asked with concern. She gave him a hand as he reclined into the bed.

“Surprisingly,” Flynn said, and it was derisive sarcasm, “you sometimes... get a little lightheaded after losing blood.” He was lethargic as well, though he would not admit to that. Lucy knew. If he got up, he would not make it far. “I’ll wait here,” he decided, “leave in the morning.” The _Mothership_  was no doubt miles from them, secreted away from any who might wander upon it. Flynn had to stay until he could walk there. Lucy did not. “Leave,” he ordered.

“No,” she refused. He was her patient. He was injured because of her. She could not, in good conscience, leave him.

“Go.” He did not want to be vulnerable with her, not any more than he already had been. They were not wholly on the same side, and he remembered that when Lucy forgot.

“No.”

Flynn could not verbally make her leave. He certainly could not do it physically. He had no choice but resignation. Lucy would stay. “Just,” he sighed, “get some sleep.”

Lucy looked around at the empty room, the dirt floor, and again at the small bed. There was probably another piece of furniture somewhere in the house, but staying with Flynn did not mean much if she left him. She would worry all night. “Don’t move.” Lucy climbed into the bed between Flynn and the wall. The wooden frame creaked in protest but did not forsake them to the floor. She laid with her head at the end and her feet beside Flynn’s shoulders, avoiding the typical model of two people in one bed.

Nothing was said.

Lucy returned the glass cover to their lantern and extinguished it before setting it in the floor.

It was dark. It was quiet but for their hushed breath and the pouring rain outside. The weather had been nothing if not a detriment to them and any protestor at the rally. Now, indoors, it was calming, soothing, nature’s lullaby. They were each exhausted and, despite every stress, despite the tension hovering between them, they would find sleep easily.

Several moments of consciousness passed, and before they ended, Lucy had to speak. “Flynn?” she asked, wondering if he was still awake.

His voice was deep, rough, and tired. “What, Lucy?”

The matter was of an intimate nature. That was why neither of them had mentioned it. The motivation behind it demanded a discussion they did not want to have. However, Lucy could not be forever silent in her gratitude. “Thank you,” she said, “for… pushing me out of the way, for… taking the bullet instead.” Already, she had bruises from where Flynn knocked her to the ground, but it was less painful than a gunshot. Flynn handled the injury in a way he was accustomed to, but they both knew that taking the shot for her could have proven fatal. That was why they did not want to talk about it. They did not want to examine why he saved her life at the risk of his own.

Flynn was quiet. He was still. Lucy assumed he fell asleep or else truly did not wish to address his heroism. Eventually, at least one full minute later, he whispered, “You’re welcome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course Flynn was the one bleeding. Because I’m pretty positive that was the implication behind the request. But there’s no denying that it is Lucy’s turn to get hurt. All three guys have been shot now: Flynn in 1.01, Wyatt in 1.02, Rufus in 1.15. Yep. It’s Lucy’s turn. And since Rufus’s gunshot wound mirrored Wyatt’s, Lucy’s should mirror Flynn’s. So she’ll get shot on the left side of her neck/shoulder area. I’m waiting for Lucy to get shot. Gender equality. Everyone take a bullet. Nobody gets left behind or forgotten.
> 
> Oh, and given the wounded soldier trope, of course I had to mention Florence Nightingale.


	10. Drunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: "Are you drunk?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I received this prompt twice, so I’m doing one serious and one not so serious. This is the serious. Because its idea came to me first.

Flynn returned to their room and relieved Karl from the duty of guarding Lucy. “Out,” was the eloquent command he gave.

Karl closed the door behind himself, leaving Flynn and Lucy alone in a hotel room in 1893 Chicago. Flynn stared at her where she sat on the foot of the bed, her posture rigid and formal. He stared at her. He dismissed her.

Flynn took off his hat, jacket, and tie. He placed them, folded, on a table. He unbuttoned his waistcoat. There was a chair in the corner, which he used to sit in and remove his shoes.

“Bed’s all yours.” He sunk lower into the uncomfortable, half-wooden chair. “You should get some rest. Big day tomorrow.”

Lucy had not slept well in days. Their first night in 1780 meant sleeping in a wagon on the side of the road while Wyatt and Flynn alternated the night watch. It was worse than camping. Rest was fitful. There was no sleep the second night. Flynn dragged her from Rittenhouse to the present to 1893 with no stops in between.

Despite all of that, despite her exhaustion, Lucy would not sleep. She had an assassination to foil. She had a man, her captor, sitting in the corner, passively watching for any chance she might take to escape. Lucy could mitigate that concern and buy them both a little more comfort.

She stood and began unclasping the sleeves then front of her dress. Flynn looked away. His consideration for her modesty provided an opportunity to make a run for it, but Lucy knew he would grab her before she cleared the door. She pulled the dress over her head and hung it on the complimentary clothes hanger. Her earrings she removed and placed on the bedside table. When she unfastened the busk of her corset, Lucy felt she could breathe a little easier. Wearing only her slip (an acceptable level of dress for their time), Lucy sat on the bed and removed her shoes. She placed them together in the floor. Her chemise had the comfort of a nightgown and would be used as one when she laid in bed and did not sleep.

Lucy pulled on the hairpins securing her bun but they were stuck. She tugged, trying to free them. The pins clung to and yanked on individual hairs. “Ow... Ow, ow, ow!” she cried. Flynn ignored her. There was a small mirror hanging above the sink. Lucy moved in front of it and tried to inspect her hair, but the angle of the bun meant she could look at herself or she could dip her head to display the pins, not both. For several minutes, she fought with her own hair, and at the end realized she was only making it worse. She dared to ask. “Flynn?”

He did not jump to action. He did not say anything. Flynn had watched Lucy struggle with her hair and knew exactly what she wanted. That did not mean he was feeling gallant enough to volunteer. However, a direct plea could not be ignored.

“Flynn,” Lucy called again, “could you... help?” She looked at herself in the mirror. One pin was dangling from her head, barely visible in its cocoon of hair. The other two held fast to her scalp.

Flynn groaned long and loud, making known his annoyance with the matter. Noisily, he got up and stomped over to Lucy. He would have made an intimidating figure if his intent were not to aid. His hand pushed on Lucy’s shoulder, forcing her to turn around. She could see him in the mirror, examining her knotted hair.

“How the hell do you have this in there?” he grumbled.

“Whichever way worked,” Lucy said. Flynn had given her insufficient supplies and a changing room that was wanting. Usually, when she had trouble dressing or undressing, Jiya was there to assist. “You know, there _was_  a reason ladies used to have help getting ready.”

Flynn moved her hair around the pins, untangling it like a puzzle, and pulled them out with moderate pain. Roughly, he grabbed Lucy’s wrist and turned it palm up so he could put the hairpins in her hand. He leaned in and then away again.

“Are you drunk?” Lucy scoffed, already smelling the answer.

“I’ve been drinking,” Flynn differentiated, insisting he could handle himself. “What, is that a crime? Man can’t have a drink?”

“Not yet, no,” Lucy murmured under her breath, “but give it another thirty years.” She walked around him, back towards the bed so she could place the hairpins with her earrings.

“You know prohibition was one of the most _stupid_  laws in history, right?” Flynn said, rambling over unimportant matters. “Counterproductive after all the crime it started.”

“I know,” she replied, and she contributed no more to the subject. Papers, books, and precedents had been written from that blunder. It was not private knowledge. She turned back around to look at him. “You didn’t bring me any?” Flynn raised an eyebrow at her. “Woman can’t have a drink?”

Flynn facilitated her want. They were each in a situation to need a drink, and he would not exaggerate the kindness of Lucy’s kidnapping to deny her one. She deserved something. He pulled a cord near the door of their room. They could not hear the ringing bell two floors below, but a caretaker would soon be by to see what they wanted.

Lucy ruffled her hair with her fingers, brushing out the tangles. Her makeup would be a mess if she left it until morning, so she turned on the sink and wet a washcloth. The water had a distinct smell to it, the side effect of early plumbing and poor filtration systems. It still felt good and cleansing on her skin. She got most of her makeup off and would either go without tomorrow or make Flynn buy her more.

There was a knock on the door.

Lucy looked at Flynn, who was already looking at her. “Get over there,” he ordered, and he jabbed his thumb back towards the bed. Lucy sat, and when Flynn was satisfied with her obedience, he opened the door. His demeanor changed immediately. “So sorry for troubling you this late,” he said to the man outside, displaying perfect manners, “but my wife was feeling up for a nightcap. Do you have any… wine, maybe?”

“Stronger,” Lucy called. She needed more than wine.

Flynn looked back and scowled at her, a wordless threat for silence. He returned his attention to the caretaker and closed the door further shut, barely including his own face in the slit. “How about a beer instead?”

“Two,” Lucy said, refusing to be quiet and docile.

Flynn growled in his throat but did not look in on her again. “Three,” he requested.

“Yes, sir,” the man said. “Right away.” He clicked his heels and left.

Flynn closed the door. He came back into the room and glared at Lucy but said nothing. There were, after all, worse things she could have yelled out the door.

“You like beer?” The order was made, and he was not recalling it. Flynn only asked for curiosity’s sake.

“Sometimes,” Lucy answered. She was never one to pigeonhole herself with a drink order. “Beer sounds good right about now.” As with high school and college kids, all Lucy needed was something to take the edge off. She was not picky.

The space between them was oppressively silent. There was not much to say. Flynn planned to murder three important figures tomorrow afternoon. Lucy could not talk him out of it anymore than she could convince him not to shoot a child. The subject could not and would not be broached. And after what Flynn considered a betrayal, he did not care what Lucy had to say unless it was her willing cooperation. He demanded her help or else threatened her death. Lucy was still trying to figure out if he meant it. She had heretofore been so precious and valuable. Words spoken in anger were rarely credible, but Lucy had learned that Garcia Flynn was wildly unpredictable.

They sat under that cloud of silence. Lucy looked at Flynn, studying his profile, as he stared out the window, taking in the lights of the World’s Fair as they flickered out for the evening.

Knock, knock, knock, rapped the caretaker upon the door.

Flynn got up. He glanced at Lucy but trusted he did not have to command her into compliance again. He brushed a hand through his hair and opened the door.

The hotel employee stood in the hall with a tray, barely visible to Lucy across the room and through the very slight crack of space Flynn allowed. The man tried to come into the room, but Flynn stood in his way, blocking entry. “My wife isn’t decent,” he explained. Only half of that was a lie.

“Of course, sir,” said the man. “My apologies.” He gave the tray to Flynn, who, in turn, gave him a tip. “Thank you, sir.” He left.

Flynn closed the door and brought in a pewter tray holding three beers and a bottle opener. He sat the tray on a table, popped open a bottle, and handed it to Lucy. As she took that first sip, Flynn opened one for himself.

“Not done yet?” Lucy said, drawing attention to his depression-based drinking habit.

“Did you _want_  to drink alone?” he returned. Flynn did not drink solely for her benefit, but there was a promise for tension if she sat there going through two beers while he watched empty-handed.

Lucy shrugged. “Bottoms up, sailor.” It was not a toast and yet they drank at the same time.

Flynn sat in his chair. Between it and the bed there was perhaps six feet of space. It felt like more and like less. More for all of the emotional distance between them. Less because of the crushing inescapability of each other’s presence. A drinking partner did not cancel the tension.

Lucy cleared her throat. “Know any good drinking games?”

He undoubtedly did, but he was not in the mood to play them. “Drink.” That was the only game which mattered.

She drank. They drank. The crushing lull returned until, again, Lucy could take it no longer.

“Does it not bother you,” she inquired, “calling me your wife?” Flynn had a wife. She was taken from him. Now, he used the once beloved title in a con.

“Better than ‘captive.’” Lucy did not know if he was trying to joke— and if he was, it was not funny. The short sentence was too emotionless to guess how the lie affected him.

Lucy held out her beer bottle and shook it. “Refill,” she asked.

Flynn took the empty bottle and placed it on the tray. He grabbed the last full one and opened it for her. Lucy muttered her thanks, which Flynn ignored. He sat back down and nursed his own beer.

It would have been less depressing to drink alone in a dark room. At least then the grim silence would be excusable. Lucy almost wished Karl had watched her the entire night. She bore no sentiment towards the man. She felt no obligation to speak. With Flynn, Lucy could not brush away the nagging sensation that they should talk. There was, after all, so much to say. Yet Lucy could not think of anything that stood a chance of being discussed.

Flynn had something he wished to address, though he stifled it until the hush became so great not even he could stand it. “For what it’s worth,” he uttered, “you have my, uh,” it was difficult for him to say, “apologies... with Rittenhouse. Benedict Arnold was right. I shouldn’t have let you come with us.”

Lucy sighed. She feared such a fate when it was upon her, but she had since and by her own hand liberated herself from its horrors. If she lingered on every evil she encountered, she would never recover. “Well, you know,” she drank, “he was just gonna rape me.” She spoke with nonchalance, forcing strength from it. “You, he was going to kill.”

“And that’s worse?” Flynn questioned. He thought too much about one and perhaps never about the other, never happening to him. It was difficult to imagine, so he gave the situation he had little concern of the greater weight.

Lucy did not have a good answer. She had experienced neither, despite her brushes with them. “At the end of death there’s... nothing. No more life anyway,” she amended. “There’s always the... afterlife. But life itself is gone. And for the other one, for... There’s a life left. It’s broken. It’s... hurt. But it’s a life. You can come back from it... hopefully.” She took a very long drink. “Don’t get me wrong. Both are,” she exhaled, “horrifying. But I’m learning— from this- from... all of this— that anything you can walk away from is better than just stopping, better than, god, disappearing.”

“Well,” Flynn said, returning to his hanging threat, “if you play your cards right, Lucy, there shouldn’t be any reason for you not to walk away from this one.”

Flynn sought to exploit her confessed fear but was unaware of the dwindling credence Lucy gave to it. She had seen him kill— up close— and did not doubt his capability. He was qualified. But Lucy knew from watching him with John Rittenhouse and from allowing her to stand unharmed between them that Flynn was not gone. Lucy remembered every mission and report she had pored over in his classified file. She absorbed the stories like any other scrap of history. That man was still in there. She had seen it. He did not want to kill, not even her, not even after she betrayed his expectations.

Lucy did not call his bluff, not to his face. Flynn would only repeat himself and reiterate his decision.

“You’re a buzzkill.”

Flynn frowned. He was ruining the entire point of drinking. He knew that and was not going to stop because of it. However, no one liked being considered the opposite of a good time. He breathed loudly out his nose and slammed his empty beer bottle on the table.

“You done?”

Lucy swirled her last bit of beer around in the bottle and turned it up for a long drag. Her throat guzzled around the foul liquid until it was gone. “Yes,” she answered.

Flynn stood and held out his hand. Lucy gave him the empty bottle, and he put it with his own back on the tray. “Get in bed.” His phrasing was mindful of the fact that she might not sleep at all, but comfortable rest was almost as important.

Lucy folded back the blankets and slid into the too lumpy bed with hard metal springs she could feel and count. The nineteenth century was the pinnacle of comfort at the time but an antiquated shadow of the present day. Lucy was grateful for exhaustion and the slight persevering buzz given to her by the beer.

She turned out the lamp on the nightstand. Flynn got the one in the corner. It was darker but not dark. New electric bulbs lit the streets outside, and the weak beams made their way in.

The curtains were kept open, and Flynn moved his chair closer to the window. It put him right at the corner of the bed, and, not scorning the opportunity that presented, Flynn raised his feet up and rested them on the very edge of the mattress. He left plenty of space between himself and Lucy. She could not tell if he was being respectful or else despised the idea of close contact with her.

Flynn pulled his pistol from the holster and rested it on his lap. He reclined as much and as comfortably as he was able. It was not an enviable position, not with his head hanging unsupported on the chair and his long legs stretching out to the bed. He did not seem to notice. Lucy guessed he had rested under worse conditions.

He did not look at or acknowledge her. She was no threat. The street below was in far greater need of his attention. His face was shadow but the outermost line of his profile was highlighted with that exterior orange light.

“Who are you looking for?” Lucy asked. She knew. “Wyatt and Rufus?”

“Old habit,” Flynn said. The dark room inspired a softer tone. It shifted his voice into a dragging rumble. He spoke without turning his head, and the orange outline on his lips moved up and down. “Twenty hour ride back to the _Lifeboat_ ,” he estimated, “four hours to charge it when they return.” He dipped his head to the side in a contemplative shrug. “I don’t expect they’re gonna be here before the morning.”

“But you expect them.”

“I expect a bumbling rescue attempt,” Flynn told her. He turned his head and smiled, but it was not a pleasant emotion. “They have no guide.”

“They’re resourceful,” she insisted.

“You’re resourceful,” Flynn contradicted, flattering Lucy in a factual way. “They’re useful every now and then, each in his field, but they’re useless without you. Not exactly a good team.”

“It’s better than trying to do everything alone,” Lucy said, “like you.”

Flynn resumed looking out the window. “I’m not alone,” he said. “I have you, don’t I?” He did, but it was not by her choice.

Lucy spoke no more. She laid back on her pillow and closed her eyes.

It did nothing.

An hour later, she was still awake. Two hours later, she was awake— and three. Time ticked along with a clock on the wall and taunted her wakefulness.

When Lucy opened her eyes to check the time again, she saw that Flynn’s were closed. His head dipped down towards his chest. His breath was even and peaceful. He was asleep.

It was an opportunity which would never come again. Slowly, silently, and with no second thought, Lucy got out of bed. She folded back the blankets and moved to the edge of the mattress, creaking as few springs as possible. She put her foot on the floor. The wooden board whined but only slightly. Lucy stood and approached Flynn, walking on her toes. The gun was still in his lap, but his hand had fallen down beside his leg. It begged to be taken. Lucy reached for it, that weapon mere inches away. She reached for it. A strong hand wrapped around her wrist and squeezed!

Lucy tried to jump away, but Flynn would not let go. He pulled her closer in and she almost fell on him. “Up for a drink of water?” he asked, mocking her futile escape plan. His legs formed a gate to the pen between two walls and the bed. There was only one reason to get out on that side.

“You weren’t asleep,” Lucy guessed.

“Wanted to see what you’d do.” He was not surprised by the choice she made. Flynn threw Lucy’s hand away, forcefully releasing her.

“I’m not your enemy,” she declared.

“You’re not my ally,” Flynn observed. He picked up his gun and turned it back and forth, watching it glint in the secondhand light from outside. “What were you gonna do with this, Lucy? Huh?”

After a deep, ragged exhale, she said, “Leave.” It was the truth. She had no plans to use the gun on him.

“Leave,” Flynn questioned, and he sat forward in his seat, dropping his feet to the floor. “Leave and, what, warn Edison, warn Ford or Morgan?” He laughed. It was chilling. His smile was too wide. “But you say you’re not my enemy.” His joviality fell all at once, act over. “Here,” Flynn decided. He extended his hand with the gun and turned it around, presenting the grip to her. “Take it. Threaten me to let you leave.”

Lucy regarded the weapon but made no move to grab it. At best, Flynn’s little display was a trap. At worst, he called her bluff. A gun gave Lucy no more power over their situation, not when Flynn knew she would not use it.

“Take it,” he said again, dared her again. Lucy would not. Flynn held his hand out for a minute more then let it drop. “I guess,” he considered, “we know each other too well, don’t we, Lucy?” It was an unfortunate truth. “Or I know you, rather. See,” he continued, “I know you’re not going to shoot me, but you? What do you know? What do you know about me, huh? What- What have you _tried_  to know, to understand?”

“I know enough,” Lucy asserted.

“You know _nothing_!” Flynn hissed. “Nothing... or you’d help me.”

“I know you’re not going to kill me.”

In a flash, Flynn jumped to his feet. With a fluid, automatic gesture and a metallic click, he loaded a bullet into the chamber of his gun. The muzzle went right to Lucy’s forehead, right between her eyes. She closed them in fear and dread. “What do you know, Lucy?” She did not speak. “Hmm?” He waited. “Tell me.” He leaned in close and asked it again. His breath smelled like the alcohol he claimed did not affect him.

Lucy swallowed hard. She inhaled and it quivered. “I don’t know you.”

That was all he needed. Flynn withdrew his gun and stepped away. Lucy watched him put the safety back on and was shaken by the fact it was ever off. However, and despite every implication otherwise, she still could not dismiss the optimistic notion that it was all in service to intimidation.

Flynn sat back in his chair. He put his feet on the bed. “Get some sleep,” he ordered.

“How can I?” Lucy retorted with indignation. “My- My... My would-be murderer is sitting at the foot... of my bed watching me sleep. You just put _a gun_  to my head.”

Flynn did not respond immediately. When he did, it was not with an explicit promise of nonviolence. “You’re not useless yet.” The subtleties of his mission and mannerisms gave better assurance than the words. Flynn still needed her. In that moment, he despised Lucy, but consensual or not, he would have their partnership.

She was safe.

“You won’t kill me,” Lucy wanted to say one more time, but she knew it secured nothing but a repetition of events. Flynn needed Lucy to believe he would kill her, and while they were alone, while it was only them, he would threaten it again and again.

Lucy got back in bed. She laid her head on the pillow and covered up like she was hiding. For the rest of the long night, she did not look at Flynn and had no idea if he ever slept. She did not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet Flynn used to be a fun drunk but now he’s more of an angry drunk...
> 
> I’m thinking the next drunk one I write (the not serious one) will be them playing a drinking game. Since Flynn was such a fuddy duddy this time when Lucy asked. lol. I don’t drink though. And I really don’t know any drinking games. Does anyone have a suggestion of a game that could be fun? I’ll just look some up otherwise. Or I’ll make them play "I never." Actually that could be interesting. Hmm............. Although it would quickly go downhill. Just like in episode 1.16 of Lost. Wait. I wasn’t supposed to make this one serious too. Eff. But I wannaaaaaa.
> 
> I would like to take this opportunity to point out that girl a drinker. Ignore the champagne or whatever girly drink Lucy got in the end of 1.07. Nah, I’m talking about her having a beer in the Pilot. Knocking back moonshine in 1.09. Flynn ordering them both a beer in 1.11. Drinking STRAIGHT ABSINTHE in 1.14. Party hard Lucy.


	11. Test

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: “I did a pregnancy test.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was doing this prompt whether someone requested it or not. lol
> 
> Apologies for the blatant dialogue rip in the beginning. Not usually my style, but I needed to set the scene.

“I’m not here to fight,” Lucy declared. “I want to help you.”

“Drop it, Flynn,” Wyatt demanded.

“I’m gonna blow this place up with all of us in it, and it’ll be _worth it_ ,” Flynn threatened, and despite holding every power in the room, he presented as nothing but a cornered, frightened animal.

“Stop, stop,” Lucy exclaimed. “Both of you just stop it.” Flynn and Wyatt were stayed from violence so long as she stood between them. That was not good enough. A stalemate was not good enough. Lucy looked at Flynn with every pity and mercy she held for the man. “I know that you’re not a bad man.” She had seen his other side too often to believe that anymore. “I know that you’re hurting.” She wanted to help heal him. “I know you don’t want to kill a room full of people upstairs.”

“I don’t want to kill them,” he stressed. His eyes were wet and glistening with hesitation and guilt. “I have to kill them... to put my wife and child back on this earth.” He was a good man, husband, father.

With all the pain of torture, Lucy said, “It won’t work.”

“You don’t know that,” Flynn pitifully opposed, “and both of you would do the same!”

He was right. He was. To save those she cared about, Lucy would defy fate. She would fight. She would beg and plead. She would protect and preserve what mattered, paying whatever was the cost.

“I’m pregnant!” Lucy closed her eyes as dread consumed her, surrounded her like stepping out into icy air. “I’m pregnant,” she said again in a quieter voice. It was a harder thing to repeat. The first was an outburst, but repetition was confirmation. It let confused ears and minds know they heard correct. Slowly, Lucy peeked open her eyes. Flynn was looking at her with an open-mouthed shock he could not care enough to hide. “I’m pregnant,” Lucy uttered one more time, “and- and- and... it’s yours... Flynn. You’re the... It’s yours.”

The room went absolutely silent. The loudest sound in the world was the very distant clatter of shoes upon hardwood: the Rittenhouse meeting above them.

“You slept with Flynn?”

In her haste and desperation to speak, Lucy forgot Wyatt was behind her. “I...”

“It was consensual!” Flynn defended, hastily asserting information which had not been questioned. It was consensual. It was angry, and silent, and swiftly forgotten, but it was consensual. “But that doesn’t mean—”

“I took a pregnancy test,” Lucy interrupted. Her monthly cycle was regular, like clockwork, and any disruption of that was suspicious. “I took—” she laughed and it sounded as desperate and hopeless as she felt— “three of them.”

“When?” Wyatt demanded.

“Last week,” she said.

“No,” he growled, “when the hell did you sleep with... Flynn?” It was difficult for him to say the name. It was difficult for Lucy to confirm the date, to let Wyatt know exactly when it happened.

“1893,” Flynn answered in her stead, “Chicago.” It occurred during the brief few days when he kidnapped her, and upon his character that cast disgusting suspicion. He told the truth, however, which Lucy would confirm if asked. It was a consensual mess which quickly got out of hand. “But she’s lying,” Flynn hissed. He did not appreciate her tactic. It was abhorrent and manipulative.

Lucy laughed again. It lacked humor and accentuated hysteria. “We didn’t exactly have...” She excluded every word she did not want to say aloud. “Not in 1893.” She took countermeasures upon returning to the present, but those were not always a guarantee.

“No,” Flynn objected, refusing to believe her ploy. His hand clenched around the detonator. “You would have told me. Today... you would have told me, this morning.”

“I was... never... going to tell you,” Lucy shamefully confessed. She could not look him in the eye, though the intentions of her secrecy were never cruel. At the time, she considered them a kindness. “You said,” she reminded, “you said that you couldn’t be a father again. I wasn’t going to make you, Flynn. But if you do this, if you kill us now, I’ll never...” She would never be a mother. “It’s not perfect,” she acknowledged. “It’s not how I imagined it.” When Lucy placed motherhood within her eventual future, she always made vague plans around what it looked like. “But maybe we can make it be whatever we want. Maybe we can make it work.” Her eyes were blurry with wet tears that did not fall. “But if you push that button, we’ll- we’ll never know, okay? We’ll never know. Is _that_  worth it?”

“Lucy, leave,” Wyatt commanded. Despite his feelings about it, he believed her claim of pregnancy. “Get out of here while you can.” He looked past her and to Flynn. “You let her go, you son of a bitch. You let her walk out.”

Flynn nodded his head and it was shaky, erratic. “Go,” he permitted. “Leave.” On the chance she was telling the truth, he would not kill her. He did not want to kill her. “Please leave.”

“No,” Lucy said, defying them both, refusing their self-destructive chivalry. She would not leave them to die. “You’ll have to kill me, too.” Flynn was not bluffing. He would blow his planted explosives, with or without her presence. Lucy hoped she could convince him against it.

“Take her,” Flynn ordered Wyatt, or perhaps he was asking, imploring. “Drag her if you have to.”

Wyatt was conflicted. If they left, Flynn completed his plan. “I can’t let you kill those people.”

“Flynn.” Lucy took a small step forward, and Flynn shifted the aim of his gun from Wyatt to her. He would not shoot. They all three knew that. But Lucy did not continue advancing and making him feel threatened. “We are all so caught up in our grief, in our past, in our pain, and we can’t let go.” She was right, and it pained them both for her to say it. “So we just continue to hurt more people.”

Flynn’s eyes were glossy with the low basement light. His lips twitched in a miserable pout. “I prayed to God,” he justified, “for answers.” His breath was stilted. His expression was desperate. “And He led me here, to this.”

Lucy took another step towards him. “What if He led you to me?” Flynn wanted to believe that. He wanted to believe her— about everything. He wanted to believe that it all happened for a reason, maybe even the newest reason she gave: a child. What if everything— every pain— was necessary to lead them there? “I know a way that we can _really_  take out Rittenhouse,” she swore. Lucy came closer still. She was almost upon him. Flynn allowed her all but those last few feet of space. “We have to stop trying to fix the past,” she told him. “It’s time to move on, move forward. We have to focus on the future.” Their consideration could no longer remain trapped in the past. It could not even tarry in the present. That was merely the time in which they needed to work, to ensure a future. “I need you to hear me out,” she asked. “I know what to do now. Please, before it’s too late.” Flynn was on the cusp of falling to her persuasion— about all of it. “The journal,” Lucy said, referencing his most prized possession, “didn’t it say that I was going to help you one day? Well, maybe today is that day.”

Flynn sniffed. His eyes lowered to the floor. His gun wavered. “It never said anything about...”

“It never said anything about a lot of things,” Lucy reasoned, speaking with so much confidence on an assumption. She had no idea what the journal said, but she knew a pregnancy between them was not one of its topics. “We made it all up before,” she said with a desperate chuckle, a pleading smile. “Let’s do it again... together.” She took another step. “Flynn?”

He looked past her and at Wyatt, needing a guarantee of his safety. Lucy urged Wyatt to trust her and lower his gun. He did. Reluctantly, he did. She asked so much of them both, but it was not betrayed. Flynn holstered his weapon. He put away the detonator.

“Help me...” He cleared his throat. “Help me disarm all of this?” Lucy moved towards one of the bombs and Flynn stopped her. “Not you,” he snapped. “These explosives can still be delicate. Wait outside.”

“No,” Lucy refused. She wanted to believe Flynn, but until the bombs were rendered inert and they were all three out of the house, she could not dismiss the possibility of an explosion. She gave him incentive to do the job right. “We leave together.” There was no arguing with her.

“Have it your way,” Flynn relented.

He let Lucy stay, but she was not allowed to help. That was an agreeable compromise because she did not know how to disarm a bomb anyway. She watched Wyatt and Flynn take them all down and pack them away in his duffel. They left.

Ethan was waiting at the car. There was another man who trusted her, a man whom she would make a great-grandfather. It was a surreal concept.

The car ride was gravely silent. Wyatt sat stoically in the driver’s seat beside Lucy. He was fuming to himself but prioritized everything else above how he felt. They would have a long discussion later in private. Flynn sat behind Wyatt, as far away from Lucy as the small cabin space would grant him. No one spoke unless it was absolutely necessary. They certainly did not discuss the implications of Lucy’s confessed secret. It was a long drive.

When they made it to the warehouse and the _Lifeboat_ , Wyatt did not want to leave Lucy with Flynn, but he did. There was no other choice. And perhaps he trusted Flynn would not harm her— could not harm her. Lucy did not worry. She trusted Flynn, who trusted her, believed her.

He was so delicate with Lucy as they made their way home. He was afraid to touch her and moved away if they came close. Flynn had become a creature of destruction and feared what horrors he could inflict, be they intentional or not.

He gave her physical space, but his eyes were on her constantly when he thought she was not looking. Lucy gazed out the car’s window and saw Flynn in its reflection, watching her when he should have been looking at the road. After a few moments, Lucy turned her head forward, and there was no trace that he ever paid her attention. It was another silent car ride. Flynn was almost shy about the situation, and he did not so much as mention her condition until they were leaving the past.

“Are you sure it’s all right?” He looked at the _Mothership_  and back to Lucy. “Traveling while you’re...” He was so nervous over the whole thing that he could not speak it out loud, lest something go wrong simply from addressing it.

Lucy had already done her worrying over that possibility. Even if time travel were ill-advised, “I’ve already, ya know, jumped... a couple of times, so...” Since they slept together, Lucy had traveled in a time machine exactly ten times. She had wanted to abstain from any further trips after she found out about her pregnancy, but with the very next call, Rittenhouse deigned to kill Flynn’s mother and erase him from history. Lucy could not let that happen. She had to go. She had to help Rufus stop Flynn’s assassin. And after that, “If it... If it did something,” she murmured, “it’s already done. So what’s one more trip? Because I am _not_  staying in 1954.” Lucy made herself laugh.

Flynn shuffled on his feet and stared at the ground in shame. He burned five seconds of indecision before stepping forward. He hugged her, held her. Lucy’s arms were flat against her sides as his hand moved like a comforting, blanketing weight against her back. He cradled her head. “It will all be over soon.” What should have been reassuring became ominous when Flynn said it. Lucy chose to hear only the consoling intent.

He helped her into the _Mothership_.

When they returned to the present, Flynn did not want to let her go, though he knew it was necessary. He did not stop her. He did not even voice his concern over losing everything, again, once it left him. The emotion of concern though, it quivered in him, barely perceivable.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he instructed. Flynn was so accustomed to keeping his secrets close. He trusted no one— no one except her. “They won’t forgive it.” He was right, of course. In a world Lucy wished were cast in shades of gray, her actions with Flynn would be only black. “And maybe, uh, stifle Wyatt,” he suggested.

There was a slight chance that, by virtue of friendship, Wyatt already told Rufus, but Lucy knew it would go no further. “He won’t tell,” she knew. Wyatt was irritated with Lucy and what she did but not to such an extreme. They had all made mistakes. The only difference was Lucy had trouble deciding whether or not to label hers thus. Before yesterday, it undoubtedly was, but now, seeing Flynn handle the news, Lucy somehow felt better about everything. She felt more calm and confident. She was terrified, and that might never go away; however, she no longer felt so alone.

“You should go,” Flynn said.

“I should,” Lucy agreed. Neither of them really wanted her to leave. They had so much to discuss, and if she stayed, one of them might actually find the courage to say it. However, there was terrible danger at hand, and Lucy could not combat it by remaining there with Flynn. That did not mean she left with all necessary haste.

For the past week, it had become Lucy’s unintentional compulsion to rest her hand on her stomach when standing around. She could not take her mind off what was inside, and thought manifested itself through physical actions. It was a tell to her condition, but she never claimed to be a difficult person to read.

Flynn watched her hand. He was envious of its position. His own came forward and hovered a few inches from him like a question. Lucy was on the cusp of giving Flynn permission, but his hand dropped back down against his side and he turned away.

“Keep me updated,” he said.

-

Lucy waited for Flynn. She felt nervous despite knowing he would show. He had to show. She had the information he needed. Lucy closed her hand around the flash drive in her pocket.

“You’re alone?” called that deep, familiar voice, taking her by surprise.

Lucy turned around. Flynn was nicely dressed in a suit with a long jacket. There was no reason to be so formal, but he looked handsome. Lucy could hardly critique his choices. After all, she did not show up in jeans and a t-shirt.

“I said I would be.”

It was decided during an awkward phone call in which they set up a time and location to meet and said nothing else outside of Flynn’s demand for a clandestine encounter. When the important matters were settled, the line went silent. They each waited for the other to say something. They did not. They were not brave enough. After a minute, Flynn hung up.

“Do you have it?” Again, they put business first. Business was easy to discuss. That conversation was almost scripted with its simplicity.

Lucy gave Flynn the memory stick with a promise that his family’s murderers were on it. She told him it would be over, just as he did for her in 1954. They were almost done. After his last mission was finished, Flynn said he never wanted to see the _Mothership_  again. That was good. They were putting the past behind them, where it belonged.

“I, uh...” Flynn stared at the ground. “I thought about you all day yesterday.” He looked up and quickly attempted to correct himself. “Well, I thought about...”

“I know what you mean,” Lucy said. There were many implications that came with the news. She had a great deal of her own to consider before telling Flynn. Letting him know opened a new can of worms. “It’s a lot,” she said. “It’s a lot on top of a lot... on top of a lot.” She could go on forever, thinking of and including further complications in their lives. “Everything has been... so hectic, all of this, all we’ve had to do.” She sighed. “God, I haven’t even told my mom yet.” It was near the top of a to-do list which constantly had other priorities push it down. “I have to find a doctor— I think. I have to...” She trailed off and hid her face behind her hands. It was overwhelming. “I have no idea what I’m doing.” Lucy dropped her hands back down with a self-pitying exhale.

Flynn came closer— no significant measure of distance, just enough to suggest support. “I know what you’re doing,” he said. He had been at this stage before in his life, terrified and unprepared. Now, he knew what to do. He knew everything: pregnancy and birth, babies and children. “I know...” He could not look her in the eye. “I know you won’t—”

“It’s your choice, Flynn,” Lucy interrupted, knowing what he was going to say. “Be a father, don’t be a father, it... it’s always been your choice.” His eyes flickered to her and swiftly dropped again. “You decide.” Flynn wanted to be a father. He did. He simply did not think he was entitled to the chance anymore. His reluctance was assuring. Lucy felt no fear from him. “I know you won’t... You won’t hurt... us.” She was not used to being anything more than a single count, not yet. “I know that. You are not a bad man.” She would say it until he believed her.

Flynn wanted to argue because that was their relationship. When he believed one thing and she believed another, they debated the matter into the ground. He said nothing now. Perhaps he wanted her to be right this time. If Flynn won, he was victor of nothing but the argument. Lucy’s side held far sweeter promises.

“I’ll... let you think about it,” Lucy said, relieving Flynn of the idea that he had to make the decision right then.

“Thank you, Lucy.” The sincerity in those few short words was heartbreaking. Flynn genuinely believed Lucy was showing him a kindness he did not deserve.

Gently, Lucy reached forward and held his hand. It was a simple gesture but meant so much in the ways of support and understanding. “Take your time.” To him, it was a difficult choice to make, and she pitied his uncertainty. He viewed one side as reckless selfishness and the other as a necessary sacrifice for the happiness of all except himself.

Flynn watched their joined hands and Lucy saw his gaze wander forward. He would not ask. He was scared to ask. Lucy was not familiar with seeing Flynn afraid, and he was afraid of her, which was laughable.

Lucy let go of his hand. “Go ahead,” she encouraged. She knew he wanted it.

Flynn hesitated but took a step forward, a substantial one that brought him in close. The tips of their shoes nearly touched. His large figure eclipsed her from snooping passersby. Flynn’s hand came at Lucy so slowly, so tenderly. His fingertips touched her abdomen. They spread out and laid down until his palm pressed up against her. He exhaled with something like relief. He did not move.

Lucy watched his face instead of his hand. His concentration was intense. “Not that there’s, um, anything... to feel,” she added. “It’s only been... seven weeks.”

Flynn withdrew his hand, mindful of their public setting. “But there is something, yes?”

She was almost offended, thinking he continued to scrutinize her claim, but no. Flynn was, dare she consider it, excited— in his own reserved way. He tried to keep any enthusiasm contained, but he could not avoid thinking about where they were and what it meant. Lucy smiled and nodded. “There’s something.”

The hand Flynn touched her with flexed at his side, as if tingling with an aftershock. Despite ending the gesture himself, he was not done. Lucy wanted to assure him there would be other chances. It was not their last meeting, not unless he wished it.

She had no idea where pregnancy left them in a romantic or intimate context— or even as friends. There was no obligation to continue what they started. There was no reason not to. As they each said, it would all be over soon. They could decide what they were, free from outside influence.

“You know,” Flynn remarked with a slight grin, “we weren’t exactly careless.”

They took decent cautions to prevent the inevitable, but, “Maybe... some things are meant to be.”

Flynn liked that answer. It was a different future than the one predicted in the journal, and perhaps the book’s existence changed their fate and gave them a new one. There were worse lives to live. Flynn looked at the memory stick in his hand. His fist closed around it. “Come with me.”

“Um, uh,” Lucy stammered, “what?”

“I’m changing the past,” Flynn reminded her. “When I get back here, there’s a chance you wouldn’t be...” His eyes fell but stopped before landing on the ground. That contemplative gaze hovered around her still flat stomach. “It’s your choice, Lucy.” Flynn left it in her hands.

Lucy thought about it. She had to think about it because Flynn was right. If she stayed in the present, he could erase her every memory of them together. He could erase their child. He left the decision up to her. Flynn gave her an out. He gave her the option to erase the situation they landed themselves in, to forgo being a parent, just as she allowed for him.

The decision only sounded difficult. Lucy knew her answer. “I’ll come with you,” she said. “We can save your family. We can save my sister. And then...” They would be done. They could rest. There would be no more past. There would be only the future.

Flynn let himself smile. Lucy knew that his feelings over being a father again were still wildly unsettled, but maybe he preferred deliberation over that reality being taken from him. “Get whatever clothes you’ll need for the trips,” he said. “Call me when you’re ready.”

“I will.” It felt like everything was happening so fast, but after the last few months of her life, Lucy was getting used to that. “Just... uh, give me a few hours?”

Flynn nodded. “Oh,” he realized, “I almost forgot.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out her journal. “This is for you. I won’t be needing it anymore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then the arrest happens and I die inside but MORE NOW!
> 
> Oh geez. And canonically he thinks she might have betrayed him. Here, he has to wonder just how much was a lie. Surely it even crosses his mind that she’s not really pregnant and she played him. That hurts way too much. Don’t make me think about it. Either way I think I hurt myself with this one. Who would do this to themselves?
> 
> What’s "fun" is to watch the scene in the beginning of 1.15 where Lucy almost cries in the locker room and pretend this is the reason why.
> 
> I actually had a couple ideas for such a prompt but this one felt good with the finale still right behind us. God, Flynn is just such a good father though. Someone who was meant to be one. You know that even after everything he’s done he wants to believe what Lucy said  
> that he could still be a father. And she’ll let him try because she is so adamant that he’s still a good man. She can’t truthfully believe that but deny him the opportunity. And then Flynn won’t let himself go back to his other family because of all he’s done, but in this fic he has a second chance. He can start over from the point he’s at now— a point where Lucy prevented him from doing truly horrible acts. He resented her interventions at the time but it has helped save him.


	12. Drinking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: "Are you drunk?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second fill for this prompt. It’s just a lot of character interaction. Which is good news if you’re into that. I am.
> 
> Probably definitely the longest prompt to date. (Why it took so long.) Whoops.

The pocket door slid open and Flynn stepped inside the car. He closed it back behind him.

“Well,” he said with unnerving nonchalance, “engineer’s dead.” Lucy had no response to such a predictable result. “Which isn’t _really_  surprising considering the, uh, metal shard sticking out of his stomach.”

“Stop.” Lucy barely contained herself at the sight of the horror. She did not need it described back to her. She was grateful Flynn let her flee into the first boxcar while he attempted to save the man’s life at her request. That did not mean she wanted to replay all she missed as further demonstration to his good deed.

The engineer passed, joining his coworker with the bullet in his head. There were six men on the ground outside whose bodies attracted the howls and appetites of carnivores. Lucy and Flynn were the only living people on a stationary freight train.

“No telegraph,” Flynn told her. They could not signal for help and would remain stuck in the middle of nowhere until rescue. “Everything up there is pretty basic.”

“But still good enough to transport whatever the hell you had to steal,” Lucy muttered.

Flynn patted his coat, touching the important and obscure treasure in his pocket. “Just stole it before the bandits did and it disappeared forever,” he rationalized. Beating them to the prize meant dropping them on the ground, each with a bullet or two in his chest. Flynn took them all out but not before they halted the train and killed the engineers.

“You could have stopped this whole thing,” Lucy stated, “instead of- of letting everyone die— or killing them.” The event was too irrelevant for Lucy to know about. She barely had major train robberies memorized. Flynn knew what was going to happen when she did not.

He gestured towards the engine. “Those men were supposed to die,” he reasoned. “I thought that’s what you wanted, Lucy, to protect the past.”

“The bandits were supposed to live,” she argued. Lucy knew nothing of their lives, but surely a few of them went on and had children. Entire lines were now wiped out. “You couldn’t even stop them before they boarded the train,” she complained. “Now we’re stuck here.”

“You didn’t have to follow me,” Flynn pointed out, reminding Lucy that her being there was no one’s fault but her own. “ _You_  jumped on the back of the train.”

“Only after I saw you sneak onto a car,” Lucy said. “I wasn’t going to let you... go off alone... do whatever you want.”

“And yet I still did,” he replied. “Only now... I have company.”

Lucy stood with an irritated huff. “And what was supposed to be your big exit strategy?”

“Leave one of the engineers alive,” he said, “let him finish taking the train to station.” That failed. Flynn chose not to dwell on it. “What’s in all these boxes?” he questioned.

There were twelve train cars total, and Flynn and Lucy stood in the first one at the front of the line. One whole side was filled with small and tall crates that were tied off to prevent them from shifting in transit. Lucy had not opened them. “I don’t know,” she said.

Flynn was not satisfied with her answer. Perhaps he was restless, knowing there was nothing else they could do until rescue. He left the car and came back a moment later with a hammer and pry bar. “Which one first?” he asked, letting Lucy choose.

“You can’t just... go through people’s things,” she objected.

“The bandits would have done worse than snooping,” Flynn justified. “Come on, Lucy, pick one.” If she did not, he would.

Lucy pointed at a long, flat box on top of the pile. Flynn loosed it from the ropes, and together they put it on the floor. He wedged the pry bar between crate and lid and hammered it open.

“Clothes,” Flynn observed. He stuck his hand between the different colors and materials and riffled through them.

Lucy knelt down and picked up a shirt. “Probably on their way to a store,” she said. They were all new and unworn.

“Here,” Flynn warned just a second before he tossed something at Lucy. “Looks your size.”

She unfolded the many ruffles of soft, emerald green satin. “I already have a dress.”

“That one’s nicer.”

“I’d rather wear some of these pants,” Lucy uttered, but she was not going to change in front of him.

Flynn allowed her abstinence from a wardrobe change. He himself traded his necktie for a better one. While he tied it up in a distinguished knot, Lucy picked up the hammer and pry bar. She stuck the tools into another crate and began forcing the nails to open. It was a tall box, nearly up to her chest, and Lucy had a difficult angle to hammer into. She got the lid off.

“What’s in it?” Flynn asked.

Lucy leaned over into the crate. It was dark in the boxcar, being lit only by two lanterns, one suspended from the ceiling at either end. She could not see. Lucy stuck her hand into the box and grabbed a cold, hard shape that felt familiar. She stood up and presented it to Flynn. “Wine,” she remarked. “Don’t suppose you have a corkscrew handy.”

Flynn took the bottle from Lucy and read the label. He raised his brow, impressed by the brand or its general flavor. With no warning, he smashed the neck on a crate, making Lucy flinch. The lip of bottle shattered and spilled wine on the floor. It was open. “Find some cups.”

Lucy sighed and leaned back into the crate in search of something with which to drink. “Wouldn’t... need cups if you—” Lucy almost fell into the high box but caught herself— “opened it like a normal person.”

“Normal person’s got a corkscrew,” he stated.

Lucy took an ornate box with a promising shape. She climbed out of the crate and opened it to see two lovely pairs of wine glasses. “Someone must have been shipping their entire collection,” she assumed.

Flynn reached into the box and took out two glasses. He set them on an unopened crate and poured them each a drink. Wine decanted past the level typically served at dinner or a restaurant.

“Trying to get me drunk?” Lucy awkwardly joked.

Flynn picked up the glasses and offered her one. “Not much else better to do,” he justified. “Unless of course you want to keep opening boxes.”

Lucy took the glass. Flynn held his out to her and they toasted. The crystal made a lovely high-pitched clink. They sipped. It was good. “Now if only we had a table and dinner,” Lucy murmured. The stress of adventure usually killed her appetite, so she was not very hungry. However, she would not say no to a seat more comfortable than the wooden floor.

Flynn put his glass down on a crate. “Sacks in the corner,” he said.

There were large canvas bags of flour and sugar stacked against the back wall. Flynn began taking them down and moving them into a more suitable arrangement. Lucy helped. They made two chairs that faced each other. There was a seat and a back to rest against with a sack on either side as arms for leaning on. The bags were tightly packed and not exceedingly comfortable, but they were better than the floor.

Flynn and Lucy sat with their open wine bottle. They drank in silence.

They had a second glass.

“This is depressing as hell,” Lucy muttered.

“The engineers probably have a supper around here somewhere,” Flynn said, assuming she might want food to break up the monotony of drink.

Lucy shook her head. “I’m not hungry.” Her stomach growled off and on, but she had no appetite. She spent another minute of the quiet considering what she really wanted before opening her mouth to say it. “Want to play a drinking game?”

Flynn picked up his arm and dropped his hand down on his thigh with a slap. “Why not?” he said. “Have one in mind?”

She did. “‘I never,’” she suggested.

Flynn thought about it and said, “I don’t think I know that one.”

Lucy leaned forward. “It’s easy,” she told him. “We used to play all the time in college. You just... You go through saying things you’ve never done that the other person might have, trying to make them drink. It’s a way familiarize yourselves a little better.”

“Not a lot I haven’t done,” Flynn touted, making himself sound so worldly. “Not a lot I’d like to share about what I have.”

“Aren’t you always wanting to talk,” Lucy said, “get to know each other? No better way than this.” There were many better ways, but her suggestion lacked that awkwardness and benefited from alcohol.

“All right,” he agreed. “Give me an example.”

“I might say,” Lucy pondered, “that I’ve never been in the military, for instance, and then you, you would have to drink. Because you have.”

“Okay,” Flynn replied, understanding the simple rules. He drank.

“Your turn,” Lucy said. She sat back against her packed canvas chair. “Think of something you’ve never done.”

Flynn began confidently vague. “I have never kissed a man,” he said with a smirk.

Lucy chuckled and drank. “You know, that’s sort of cheating.”

“Well,” he said, “get me back.”

“And say I’ve never kissed a woman,” she presumed. Flynn nodded and waited. He waited. Following her continued silence, his eyes widened in humorously exaggerated surprise. “It was college!” Lucy defended. “I was,” she gestured at her glass, “drinking.”

Flynn raised his hand in amends, indicating no judgments. “Go on then,” he said, waiting for her actual turn. “What _haven’t_  you done? _Who_  haven’t you done?”

“It was _just_  a kiss,” Lucy emphasized. “And you can’t tell me you never at least... thought about it,” she insisted, “when you were young.”

“Kissing a woman?” he said. “No, I thought about that very often as a boy.”

“Not a woman,” she clarified, knowing he was being purposefully dense. “Never? Not once?”

“Is that how I should use my next turn?” he questioned.

“If you don’t, is that my answer?” Lucy returned.

Flynn grinned and shook his head in amusement.

“I,” Lucy thought of a statement, “have never read someone else’s journal.” It was another unfair remark, borderline cheating, but she considered the first few rounds to be practice, a warm-up.

Flynn sighed and tipped back his glass. Before he moved on to his turn, he swished his wine around the bowl and asked, “Do the diaries of important people published after their deaths not count?” Lucy forgot to consider historical accounts and Flynn knew it. “Drink up, Lucy.” She surrendered to his reasoning and drank. Flynn thought. “I’ve, uh, never colored my hair.”

“Okay, so you’re not using your freebie?” Lucy commented, drawing attention back to their past conversation of kissing.

“Thought I’d give you a fighting chance,” Flynn replied with a wink, “keep it fair.”

“Some fairness,” she uttered before drinking.

“What color?”

“It was blonde,” she said, “a dark blonde, if you must know, and no, I could not pull it off.” She dyed it back almost immediately. The whole experiment was never anything more than a short-lived mistake to look more like Amy and her mother.

“Don’t suppose you have any pictures of it?” Flynn inquired. He gestured at his head. “I’m having a little trouble picturing you blonde.”

“Uh, no,” Lucy told him, “no pictures. And even if there were, _you_  would never see them.”

“Fair enough,” he allowed. “Your turn.”

“I never,” she considered, “drove all day and night to get somewhere.”

“Generally,” Flynn questioned, “or does work not count?”

“Work doesn’t count,” Lucy granted. “It’s where you’ve gone, not where someone sent you.”

Flynn did not drink. “Maybe we should travel more,” he suggested.

“Is all this not enough for you?” Time travel exhausted Lucy.

“A spontaneous adventure,” he imagined, “recreation, not a mission. Pick a country and drive the back roads. Get lost and ask for directions. Maybe you know the language, maybe you don’t.”

“Aren’t you supposed to do reckless things like that in your twenties?” Lucy remarked.

“My twenties weren’t my own,” he told her.

“Yeah,” she somberly agreed, “neither were mine.” With a sigh, she added, “And it doesn’t look like my thirties will be either.”

“Well,” Flynn determined, “we still have about seven years to end this, don’t we?”

“You... know my age,” Lucy said, and she was hardly surprised.

“Age,” he replied with a casual shrug, “birthday, height, blood type, annual salary, grades in college, what model car you drive, how long you’ve owned it. Um, your sister was seven years younger than you. Your father died when you were fifteen— well, the man you thought was your father.”

“Okay, stop,” Lucy ordered. His knowledge of her was off-putting, and there was no way some of it was recorded in the journal. “That’s called stalking, you know.”

Flynn was unperturbed by the label. “I wanted to know more about you,” he said. “You can’t honestly say you wouldn’t do the same under the circumstances.”

“I don’t know what I’d do,” she told him, and that was the best truth she had for it. “My blood type?”

“It came up in your medical records,” he explained.

“Change of subject!” Lucy insisted, deciding she was better off not knowing how much Flynn knew about her from a paper trail.

“I never had the... luxury of getting to meet you first and know you second,” Flynn stated, and in answer to that, Lucy had to drink. She felt chastised over condemning his methods, methods he could imploy or else approach her on the street. She did not feel remorseful enough to apologize.

The boxcar went dark as the last ray of sunshine set outside. There was only the lantern above them and its twin hanging at the other end. It was quiet, all dead outside but for the insects. Flynn refilled Lucy’s glass, and she murmured her thanks.

“I’ve...” Lucy did not lack an idea. She lacked the courage to say it. “I’ve never been in love.” She felt sorry for herself in a pathetic way.

Flynn did not mind drinking over his experience, and at the end, he comforted her. “There are different kinds of love, Lucy.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, “but not romantic love, not the kind that leaves you... satisfied, that answers ‘the big question.’” She longed for love but was patient for the experience, knowing, hoping, that when it found her, all the waiting would be worth it. She envied the other version of herself, the lucky girl who found Noah and discovered what love was. She missed out on that experience. “What’s it... like?” Lucy had to ask, and she spoke her pressing question in a quiet, timid voice. There were many tellings of love in movies and books, but they were exaggerated for the story’s sake. Lucy wanted a real life account.

Flynn sighed. He looked at the wine glass he held by its stem. His index finger stroked the bowl. “It’s like a, uh... mistake,” he described. “It’s a mistake because it weakens you, makes you raw, vulnerable. Love makes you easy to destroy... where before you thought you were invincible. It’s a mistake, Lucy,” he repeated, “but it’s the kind you’d make again... because it shaped you into who you are today. Love,” he philosophized, now speaking on its varied forms, “makes you weaker, makes you stronger. I couldn’t do this, any... of this, if not for love. Its motivation keeps me going when I want to lie down... never get back up.”

Lucy pitied Flynn and his fragile incentive for living and toiling. But more than that, she coveted such a strong emotion. “I want that,” she said.

“You’ll find it.” He was certain.

“Is that... in the journal?” she questioned. It was dangerous to ask, lest she upset the events that led to it, but she was curious.

“No,” Flynn said. “If it’s there, you didn’t write about it.”

“More important things,” Lucy assumed. She felt disappointment knowing that all her future self talked about was Rittenhouse and Flynn. When did she stop living her life? “How do you know I’ll find it then?” she asked, wondering at his logic.

“Because I know you,” Flynn replied. He smiled at her but dropped it just as quickly. “He’s a lucky man, whoever he is, wherever he is... whenever he is.”

Lucy blushed. “It- It,” she stammered, “it’s your turn, your turn to go. You go.”

“Hold on,” Flynn pardoned. They played the game very loosely and drank between their turns. Because of that, “We’re out.” He turned the bottle upside down, and it dripped humbly on the floor before stopping completely. Flynn got up and fetched a second bottle of wine. When he reared back to smash it open, Lucy stopped him.

“Let me,” she asked. Flynn looked at her with a queer expression. “You think you’re the only one who wants to break things?” Flynn relented and gave her the bottle to crack open. Lucy hit it against the side of a crate and accomplished nothing.

“Harder,” Flynn told her.

She hit it again without success. On the third try, she gave it her all and the neck smashed into pieces.

Flynn laughed at her enthusiasm. “I think you got some glass into the wine,” he said.

Lucy held the bottle up to the light and saw pieces, big and small, sunken to the bottom. “I’ll get another,” she said, getting up on her knees.

“No, no,” Flynn halted her. “Here, look.” He took out his pocket handkerchief and draped it over her cup. Wine poured through the material and was filtered from the tiny shards. Flynn filled her glass and moved the handkerchief over his own to be poured through. “Safe to drink.”

Lucy sat back down. “Aren’t you handy?” She took a drink to sample the new bottle. It was good, better than the last. Lucy looked at Flynn and smiled.

“Waste not,” he said. He reclined into his chair with a full glass. “You know,” he uttered, “I never... put up a show when I was alone with someone, acting afraid, pretending I... hated them, when some part of me, truthfully, was relieved to have the chance to talk again.”

Lucy kept the glass still in her hand, staring at it instead of looking at Flynn. She did not drink. For ten seconds, she did not drink, and Flynn doubted the surety behind his assumption. Then she tipped back her glass.

“I never made someone sound paranoid for being afraid of me,” she retorted, “like I wasn’t constantly giving them a reason.”

Flynn had to drink to that. He took a long drink, buying time, deciding if he really wanted to say, “I never had a sister.”

Lucy huffed air through her nose, angered and upset by his low blow. She made a decision of her own and did not drink. “According to records,” she said, “neither have I.” What a miserable loophole exploited for a stupid, ridiculous game. She had a sister. Lucy tilted back her wine glass and did not stop until it was gone. She leaned over to pour more through Flynn’s handkerchief. Moving gave her the slight disorientation of inebriation. She was not a lightweight by any means, and wine was not so strong as to put her over the edge; however, there was something to be said for drinking on an empty stomach and under exhaustion. It heightened and hastened the effects of alcohol. She wondered if Flynn felt the same way, but having eighty or so pounds on her probably helped his tolerance. Her rebuttal seemed obvious. “I’ve never been married.”

Flynn gave her a severe look, letting Lucy know she toed a delicate line. He drank. “I suppose you’re going to mention children next?”

“No.” That was the line she dared not cross. She was not so cruel.

Flynn refilled his own glass and sat back down. He regarded Lucy, looking across the dim train car at her. “I never stayed at a job I didn’t like,” he said, “watching life pass me by, waving to the opportunities that left me, letting them go like a coward.”

He was not wrong about her. Flynn began the game, played the game, and would end the game with an edge. He knew too much. Lucy drank. “I never killed a man when I didn’t have to,” she stated, using her own knowledge to make him lose a round.

Flynn did not appreciate her tactic, and simply to get back at her, he said, “I never killed a man.” They both had to drink, but Flynn considered the half-loss as worth it. He succeeded in reminding Lucy that she was no longer so innocent. Clever wording on her part did not erase murder.

“I never killed a woman.”

Flynn glared and kept that look on her the entire time he drank. “It wasn’t intentional,” he said. “I didn’t mean to kill her, the woman, the journalist.” Flynn was shot, injured. In self-defense, he aimed for Wyatt. He missed. Kate Drummond was hit. His reference to one specific example begged for the answer to a question Lucy would not ask: had he killed no other woman? He was capable of the deed and would commit it if needed, but he did not want to. “I never,” Flynn said, “let anyone else tell me what to do and decide my life.” He knew of Lucy’s relationship with her mother through the journal. Taking from it at all was an unfair advantage. Its existence spelled hypocrisy.

Lucy drank. “No one?” she scoffed, deriding his false sense of autonomy. “You’re following a journal that- that you don’t even believe in half the time. You do what it says... what I’m going to say.”

She was right. She was. Even when Flynn doubted the journal, he could not give it up. He needed it. He needed to be told what to do. His intelligence and resourcefulness were impressive, but they only took him so far. Flynn conceded and drank.

Lucy grew tired of the game. She watched their enthusiasm flounder as they took new purpose from its playful intention. There was a different goal.

“I never...” She stopped. “I never...” Again, she stopped. “I never traveled... through time, killing people, ruining history, ruining _families_  so I could try and make up for the fact that I was the only one to walk out of my house after an attack.”

There was the line, under her feet and then behind them.

Flynn knocked his head back and drank the rest of his wine. He drained it. Then he threw his glass away. It shattered against the metal wall, spreading fragments of different sizes to different directions. Flynn came forward, perching on the edge of assembled flour sacks. “You wanna know,” he said, “what I’ve never done?” His grin was more terrifying than his temper. “I never lived my pathetic life through stories of other people who actually got off of their asses and did something. I never... sat at home where it was safe and panicked every time an actual goddamn problem came my way. I never did all of this while... disappointing the one person who thought I could go and make something of myself. I never let her down again, and again, and again.” Flynn reclined into his seat. “And I would certainly never write about it in a journal.”

He knew how much Amy’s opinion and disappointment meant to Lucy, affected Lucy. He knew of her fears about life and living it. Flynn knew the exact right buttons to push, just as she did for him. What he was stubbornly ignorant to was the fact that Lucy believed in him, wanted him to do better, but he disappointed her again, and again, and again. Lucy did not invoke the contradiction and make him drink. Even if she wanted to, he could not; his glass was obliterated. They were done playing.

Without drinking, Lucy slammed her glass down with a forceful hit against wood, making a loud clash in the boxcar. She stood and went to the other end. With all the height of standing on her tiptoes, she reached up and unhooked the second lantern from the ceiling. “I’m done with you,” she told Flynn. It was not forever. She carried no such delusion. Lucy had learned they could not disentangle themselves forever. But for this trip, this train ride, she was done.

“Where are you going?” Flynn muttered. He did not take her threat to leave seriously.

“Out,” Lucy answered with determination.

“Are you drunk?” he mocked.

Perhaps she was because it sounded like a fantastic idea. Lucy turned around and glared at him. “You know, believe it or not,” she said, “someone doesn’t have to be- be drunk to want to get away from you.”

“Fine,” he relented, “not drunk. Suicidal then. There’s nothing out there but death, slow or quick.”

By definition of their purpose, train tracks led somewhere. She could not possibly get lost. “To the closest town, wherever.”

Flynn snorted. “The closest town is more than sixty miles away,” he said. “You’ll never make it.”

Lucy hesitated. It was a very long way to go, impossible without water or other supplies. “Sixty miles?”

“Back the way we came.”

The direction made a difference. If Lucy retraced the tracks to the city they departed, she would undoubtedly meet Wyatt and Rufus coming to her on horseback. She could walk that. Lucy unlocked the large train door. It was big and heavy, but she moved it along its track and opened the door as wide as a wall.

Flynn sat forward, at last giving credence to her recklessness. “Lucy!” he shouted in a stern voice. “Don’t get out of this car.”

“You do not get to tell me what to do,” she yelled back at him. Lucy jumped out of the boxcar. She stumbled when she hit the ground, but she recovered her balance before falling.

The train tracks laid on an open plain. There were no trees nor hills to obstruct view of the moon. It was bright enough to see even without her lantern. The tracks extended in opposing directions until they disappeared past observance. Ahead, closer to the engine, laid the bandits Flynn had picked off one at a time. Three of the previous six were mauled past recognition. One was missing completely, dragged off for consumption. Lucy feared a return of the scavengers, but there had been no howls or growls for some time. She began walking down the train.

“Lucy!” called Flynn’s heated shout. She did not give him attention, but his voice was clear and loud enough to indicate he deserted his seat and hung out the train door. “Lucy!” She ignored him. “Get back here!”

“No!” she yelled over her shoulder.

“Lucy!” His tone of voice changed but the pleading inflection did not sway her. Lucy heard a crunch as he jumped from the train and skidded over the rocks surrounding the tracks. She picked up her pace, fearing pursuit. “Lucy, stop!”

The gunshot rang like one traumatizing clap of thunder on an otherwise clear and silent night. Lucy stopped, frozen by horrific fear and knowledge that he shot at her. The tremble of her fright lasted less than one second, because followed immediately by the gunshot was an inhuman yelp.

“Lucy!”

When she turned around, there was a limp and bleeding coyote on the ground a few feet from her. Half-a-dozen more waited on the other side of the tracks, trying to determine if they should go under the train and approach her. They paced back and forth.

“Flynn?” Her voice quivered.

“Slowly,” he instructed, “slowly— slowly!— come... to me.”

Lucy took the distance between them one hesitating step at a time. The coyotes followed her from their side of the tracks. “Flynn?”

“Keep going.” He kept his right arm extended with the gun. His left he held out to Lucy, beckoning her. “Come on.”

She made it to him and Flynn immediately put himself between her and the coyotes. He kept his gun aimed at them. His left hand held Lucy’s right.

“Walk backwards,” he told her, “back to the car.”

They shuffled on their feet, retracing their steps to the open boxcar.

“Lucy?”

“Yes?”

Flynn let go of her hand. She could not see around him, but she heard his quiet order of, “Run.” He fired his gun and missed, shot again and killed.

Lucy turned around and ran for the open door. Flynn was right behind her. The car was high off the ground, almost to Lucy’s shoulders. She tossed the lantern in and wasted time figuring out how to best climb up. She did not need to. Flynn grabbed Lucy around the waist and picked her off the ground. With one mighty heave, he threw her into the open train car. She landed hard on wooden planks and rolled across the floor, collecting bruises. Immediately, she got up on her hands and knees and crawled to the door.

“Flynn!” she shouted.

There was a loud bang and a flash of light as he shot a coyote. “Close the door!” he yelled. He kicked one and it yelped. He shot another.

“But—”

“Close it!”

Lucy got up and began closing the door. When it was halfway shut, Flynn jumped in through the opening. Lucy slammed the door closed and locked it. There was a dull thud that reverberated against the wall as a coyote attempted to jump at the train. Another one tried, but then they acknowledged it as pointless.

“Oh, god,” Lucy sighed. She was out of breath and leaned hard against the metal wall before remembering. “Flynn!” She grabbed her lantern and fell onto the floor beside him to check for signs of injury. The leg of his pants was slightly ripped below the knee. Lucy took Flynn’s arm and turned it over, inspecting him further. He was too taxed to care and thus let her fuss over him. Lucy switched to his other arm and saw no bites nor scratches there either.

“I...” Flynn panted. “I never... tried to walk... sixty miles to the nearest town through a pack of wild animals.”

They laughed. It was such a ridiculous and unexpected quip, Lucy could not help herself.

“Do I have to drink?” she asked.

“Lady’s choice,” he granted.

“Are you okay?” Lucy questioned more seriously.

Flynn leaned forward to sit. He rolled his pants leg up to his knee, showing off bite marks along his calf. He was bleeding, though not very bad. It would stop with minimal pressure. “Got to get a damn rabies shot,” he muttered.

“You mean you weren’t rabid all this time?” Lucy tried to joke.

“No.” If he found the remark funny, he did not betray his reaction.

Lucy took the most fitting piece of clothing from the first box they opened— a scarf. She wrapped it around Flynn’s leg and tied it tight.

“Thank you,” he said.

“No,” Lucy refused. “No.” She came closer to him, scooting on her knees through the long skirt of her dress. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m sorry I...”

Flynn shook his head. He did not voice his own apology for words said, but Lucy understood.

“Thank you,” she expressed, “for saving me.”

“Every time,” he promised. It was a reckless and insincere promise, coming from someone who so often endangered her life. Lucy wanted to be reckless herself and believe it. He saved her this time, and that was all that mattered for now.

Possessed with an impulse as if they were normal people with a normal relationship, Lucy leaned in and hugged him. Her arms wrapped around Flynn’s neck and stayed there. He hesitated in response, waiting for the trick, the manipulation, the real cause for physical intimacy. It never came. Tentatively, Flynn brought his arm up Lucy’s back and reciprocated by pulling her closer in embrace. His head rested on her shoulder and moved in to press against her neck and cheek. They held that position.

Instead of pulling apart, Flynn rubbed up and down her back. Lucy did the same. She put her smooth cheek against his bristled one. Lucy liked him as he currently was: a man, a lonely man. Flynn’s violence was expended and put to sleep. His temper was its bedmate. All that remained was timidity, doubt, and the human tendency for affection. They were only human, with all its passions and mistakes.

“I’ve,” Lucy whispered in his ear, “I’ve never...” She took a very bold step. She speculated on strands of her own disjointed emotions. She read the situation wrong. “I’ve never... kissed someone, um, branded... as a terrorist.” Flynn was so much more than his law-given label, but wording it like that reminded Lucy of every reason why she should not follow through. She did not expect the reply she received.

“I’ve never kissed a history professor,” Flynn said in a low, deep voice that made her shiver.

“I guess we don’t...” Lucy licked her lips. “We don’t have to open another bottle to... drink... then.”

“No,” he said, “not if we haven’t done it.” The suggestion was clear as day.

“We really shouldn’t,” Lucy spoke, but they were already so close that they flirted with the point of no return. She pulled away from his cheek to look into his face, into his eyes, knowing it would be a mistake.

“No,” Flynn agreed, “probably not.”

They did, disregarding the advice of themselves and each other. If regret followed, Lucy would blame it on the wine. But it was difficult to entertain or even define regret in that moment. It was certainly not a priority— nor even a thought.

Flynn touched her and held her like she might crack under too much pressure. It was a contrast to how he normally acted, treating Lucy like she was made of iron and steel. His hands were hard but kept their strength barred from her. The thumb on her cheek was so delicately placed that Lucy almost doubted its touch. The fingers that wrapped around to the back of her head and entwined in her hair almost tickled with their tenderness. Lucy let her own hands wander slowly up Flynn’s neck, through his hair, and over his face, unable to keep still, eagerly mapping him through touch.

The tip of Flynn’s nose pressed into Lucy’s cheek as his head changed angles to deepen the ill-advised kiss. Their lips made a quiet smacking sound against each other. It was so gratifying in an unnamable way. Lucy found satisfaction in finally answering what flicker of affection was between them, but also she felt youthful and invigorated, as if kissing Flynn were the ultimate act of rebellion to remind her what it was like to live free from suggestion.

Lucy did not want it to end. Until it ended, there was no after. There was only a during, and in that they could avoid sense.

Flynn pulled away, retreating slowly. He kissed Lucy less and less until their lips were too far apart to continue. His forehead rested against hers with his hand against the back of her neck, holding her close as they breathed each other’s air.

“Not the worst idea I’ve ever had,” he murmured, trying to make Lucy laugh because of the ridiculous implication behind the statement. It worked.

“No,” she agreed with a smile. She was grateful he found a way to finish their kiss without inevitable awkwardness and that inescapable regret. “No, you’ve had a lot worse... a lot.”

“Okay,” Flynn interrupted, severing that conversation before it went any further. “What do you want to do?”

Lucy did not understand the question. “About... us?” she hesitantly asked. The kiss meant nothing or something. She was not ready to have that discussion.

“About being stranded,” he clarified. Flynn did not want to examine any changes between their relationship either. “If you want to walk it, we’ll walk.”

“No.” Lucy shook her head. “It’s stupid to try.” Sixty miles sounded very far again, especially when she had no great motivation for leaving. “And you only have so many bullets.” The bandits outside were armed, but taking from them was a last resort against unforeseeable danger, not strategy in a foolish plan. “No, we’ll... we’ll stay here,” Lucy decided for them. “Someone will come.”

Flynn disentangled their arms from around each other and stood up. He hefted the flour and sugar sacks with a grunt and rearranged them into a flat pallet. “The train... was schedule to arrive two hours ago.” He checked his smart watch to confirm the time. “They’ll wait through the night but suspect foul play by morning. Someone should be by around noon.” He tilted his head from side to side as he considered, “But that’s only if Wyatt and Rufus don’t catch up with us first.”

“Yeah,” Lucy agreed, “either/or.” They both knew which was more likely to happen. If Wyatt and Rufus were delayed, it was only because they had no clue to her disappearance. A train hours off its schedule would send them in the right direction.

Lucy aided Flynn in the further construction of his pallet. She reached into the box of clothing and took out a bulky armful of shirts, pants, and dresses. They made a more gentle surface to lay on, a patchwork sheet of cotton, linen, and satin. Lucy laid down.

Flynn put out the lantern that still hung from the ceiling above them. He took the other one in hand and walked the boxcar, checking all three doors for their security. They were locked. Lucy felt safe with Flynn and his precautions, his protection. She wondered if his family used to feel the same way.

Flynn wandered the car a minute more, and then he joined her. He sat while she lay.

The bed was wide and, by their own choice, there was no less than two feet of space between them. It was, Lucy decided, similar to dating a coworker. You went on a date and then, whether you liked them or not, you were stuck running into each other. Lucy kissed Flynn in a closed space, and they did not have the opportunity to retreat on their own and evaluate what that meant. Perhaps silence was most beneficial.

When Lucy reached over to douse the lamp, she noticed Flynn held a bottle of wine in his hands. He was staring at the label without reading it.

“Not finished yet?” she asked. If Flynn wanted to keep drinking, he would have to do it alone. She was done for the night.

“I know this wine,” he spoke. “Had it at my wedding. It’s a, uh... new company right now, of course, but it sticks around.” He turned the bottle back and forth, studying its simple label. “It sticks around.”

Lucy sat up. She held out her hand, and Flynn passed the bottle. “It any good?” she inquired.

“Very good,” he answered. “Probably the,” he exhaled as he thought, “fourteenth... one we tried. We didn’t need any more after it. That was the one.” He pointed to the bottle. “That was the one.” Lucy gave it back to him. Flynn rolled the rounded glass between his hands. “What do you think?” he asked. “Should I bury it somewhere now, dig it back up in the future? In a hundred and seventy years, we’ll have a drink to celebrate the end of Rittenhouse. Should taste pretty good by then.” It would taste good for two reasons.

Lucy smiled but it was a sad expression. “Sounds like a plan,” she said.

“Yes, it does.” Flynn reached up and put the bottle atop a crate with a dull thunk. He laid down next to her. “Turn that light out and get some sleep— if you can.”

Lucy rolled down the wick until it disappeared and the flame went out. It was next to impossible finding comfort on the canvas sacks, but she looked for it, tossing and turning. The best angle was on her side, facing Flynn, who laid on his back. The train car was dark, permitting only what moonlight snuck between cracks and spaces. She watched him gaze open-eyed at the metal ceiling. Flynn felt her stare. He had to. And after a few minutes of enduring it, he turned onto his side, meeting her glance for glance. They said nothing. It was a comfortable, companionable silence.

Lucy put her hand out between them. Flynn looked at and studied her thin fingers. He moved his own hand and pressed it up against hers. Their palms touched. Each finger aligned with its opposing counterpart. Flynn’s hand was larger than hers. The skin was rougher. His callused fingertips extended past her own.

What a simple gesture human touch was. Lucy got the feeling they both needed it because neither of them pulled away. That was how the night ended, with Lucy resting her hand against Flynn’s and looking into his eyes. She had no idea how long they stayed like that, how many silent hours. She did not recall falling asleep.

The shouting woke her.

“Lucy!”

“Lucy! Lucy!”

It was Wyatt and Rufus. Lucy sat up and looked around, prepared to alert Flynn in case he did not hear them coming. She was alone. He was not laying on the canvas sacks. He was not standing in a corner. He was gone. Lucy felt an odd sense of disappointment that he left without a warning or goodbye. There was not a trace of his presence at all except for the wine bottle left standing on a crate the night before, their celebratory drink. He took that with him.

“Lucy!”

“Here!” she announced. “I’m in here!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized I haven’t made them kiss in awhile, so that had to happen.
> 
> I really love trains, so it is a little upsetting that Timeless hasn’t had an episode take place on a train yet. At least for a little bit. So here’s a whole little fic set on a train. I like the idea of bi Lucy btw. I like bi Flynn too but I really don’t have any canon support for that one. Geez Flynn would it kill you to flirt with someone other than Lucy for once?
> 
> Again, sorry this one took me awhile to write. But it is long. And between you, me, and the fence post, I was stuck on one stubborn line of dialogue I couldn’t figure out! I’ve been held up almost a week trying to think of what to put there. Done now though. Done!


	13. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: "I trust you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flynn trusted Lucy in the finale, so I wrote Lucy trusting Flynn.

“This is your fault.”

“Really?” Flynn scoffed. “The blame game, Lucy? You really want to do this now?”

“If you didn’t...” She brought her hand forward to point at him, but the action was restricted. The chain rattled from the manacle on her wrist all the way to the wall it was secured to. “They’re going to kill us,” she muttered, horribly morose, “because you couldn’t... leave technology in the present.” There was no understanding Flynn’s modern gun. There was no Christian explanation for his watch and phone.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Flynn sighed, giving their situation none of the proper fear. “I think we can reason with them. After all, it’s not as if people in the eighteenth century are coming down off an infamous hysteria about witchcraft.” His smirk was barely visible in their dark cell, lit only by what moonlight chanced its way through a narrow window crafted into rock and mortar.

“I am... so glad you find this funny,” Lucy said. “The things they did to people...”

“I know,” Flynn answered, and he turned more sympathetic towards Lucy’s fears. “But do you— Lucy, look at me.” She found greater solace in staring at the stone floor and pitying herself. “Lucy,” he called again. She looked across the cell at him. He sat upon the cold hard floor, same as her. His arms were shackled to the wall he leaned against, same as her. Earnestly, comfortingly, he asked, “Do you really think we die here? Do you think this is where it ends?”

Lucy dropped her head back against the wall. She stared at the dark ceiling. “I don’t know,” she moaned. “I don’t... know the future like you.”

“Well, I’m not going to die here,” he decided. “You’ve welcome to survive along with me.”

“How can you believe that?” Lucy asked. She was jealous of his blind arrogance.

“How can you find it so easy to give up?” he countered. “You’re very negative.”

“And maybe ignorance really is bliss.” She knew what to expect better than Flynn. While the fear of witchcraft had died down and separated itself from death by torture, they were not likely to receive kind treatment.

“Ignorance?” Flynn huffed. “Ignorance... Let’s see... We are being held in a, uh, stone fortress meant more for keeping the natives out than keeping prisoners in. And even then, it seems most of the rooms we passed are used for storing grain. It’s late. The watch has gone home. I counted fourteen guards, at least half of which are villagers and barely trained. When they come to take us out, they _probably_  won’t do it at gunpoint like when they brought us in. We are, after all, cooperating. And I do know more about hand-to-hand combat than these people’s tiny brains could ever imagine. From there, it’s one flight of steps, two lefts, and a right to freedom. The patrol on top of the battlements watches the forest without looking back at the town. Someone could disappear that way without being seen.” He tilted his head to the side, forcing nonchalance in the wake of his shared knowledge. “But I’m sure you noticed all of that, Lucy.”

She exhaled and looked at the thick wooden door with its iron grate window. “It’s not perfect,” she uttered, recovering face by poking holes. “Is there a Plan B?”

Flynn shrugged. “Throw myself on the mercy of the church,” he said, “convince them I’m a God-fearing man.”

“Do you fear God,” Lucy asked, “or do you think He fears you?”

There was no good answer. “I think,” Flynn considered, “if what I am doing is _truly_  so... terrible, I’d drop dead where I am. I can change wars, Lucy. I can kill hundreds with one line of succession. I can bring back the dead. I can do all of that, but I am still... just... a man. If God wanted to stop me, He could... at any time of His choosing.” Flynn inhaled. He exhaled. “So maybe,” he suggested, “maybe I’m doing the right thing.” It was the assurance he sold himself. “Shh!”

“I wasn’t talking,” Lucy said, but he knew she was about to.

She heard footsteps coming down to them, a hard sole on a wooden staircase. Keys jangled around each other and were forced into the locked door. There was one soldier.

“The governor will hear you now,” he announced. He drew his pistol, and Flynn intentionally did not look at Lucy so he could avoid the judging look over him being wrong. People feared witches with every tool at their disposal.

The man came forward. With one hand, he held his gun. With the other, he unlocked Flynn’s manacles. He bade him to stand.

“What about my friend?” Flynn questioned. He did not forget Lucy.

“Her only crime is association with you,” the man informed. “Her sentence depends on what you have to say for yourself.”

“Really?” Flynn laughed. His smile curled and taunted. “They think that woman consorts with evil? That one right there? Does she honestly look the type?” The man did not answer. “Look at her,” Flynn insisted. “Just look at her.”

The soldier hesitated, but after a second, his eyes drifted from Flynn and to Lucy. It was the opening of Flynn’s design. He rushed forward and disarmed the man with one quick blow to his wrist. Flynn punched him in the nose before he could scream. From there, it was short work to get behind him and put the man’s own gun to his head.

“ _Don’t_  kill him!” Lucy yelled.

Flynn groaned at the impractical demand but conceded to it. Instead, he wrapped his arm around the man’s neck and squeezed, holding on until he passed out. Flynn dropped him on the floor and dragged him to the wall. The man took his place tied up in chains.

“Happy?” Flynn asked Lucy.

“Yes.” She rattled her fetters with discordant clinks. “Unlock me.”

Flynn took the keys off the soldier and came across the cell to Lucy. He knelt at her side and fitted a key into the lock around her wrist. He tried the next key. He went through all eight on the heavy metal ring. “It’s not working.”

“What?” Lucy exclaimed. “What do you mean it’s not working? It’s a key. You put it in the lock and you- you turn it.”

“I mean it’s not _working_!” Flynn repeated. He jiggled the key back and forth for emphasis, but it would not turn. “There must be a second set of keys for this one. Or the lock is broken. I can’t imagine they use it often enough to find out.” He removed the key and stood.

“What are you doing?” Lucy demanded.

“I have to go find the key,” he said, “or something to pick the lock. Probably won’t be difficult to do on that old thing.”

“You can’t leave,” she said, trying not to sound desperate.

“Well, I certainly can’t stay here,” he reasoned. He could accomplish nothing by staying. Whether Lucy allowed it or not, he was leaving, leaving her chained up and alone.

“Flynn,” she whispered in a voice too afraid to be loud, “Flynn, get me out of here. Get me out.” She picked up volume. “Get me out of here!” He was going to forsake her, as he always did.

“Hey,” he spoke in a calming voice. “Hey, hey.” He crouched at her side once more. “Lucy, relax.” He asked so much. “Be quiet before you bring down every guard in this place. I am going to come back for you.”

“Please don’t leave,” she begged. Lucy wanted to believe Flynn would return, but so often— so very often— he left her to handle herself, knowing she would always secure her own rescue. He put too much faith in her. “Please. Flynn... please don’t leave. Do _not_  leave me here.” His disappearance would confirm any suspicion the town had of him being a witch. Lucy would be left to accept the consequence.

Flynn understood her concerns of abandonment, concerns he only ever fed. “I have to, Lucy,” he said. “Do you get that? There is _nothing_  in this damn cell I can use to get you out.” He looked all around them one more time, making certain he had not missed something. There was no such tool.

“Please,” she asked. If he left, she was on her own, armed with nothing but her knowledge of history and persuasion skills. People’s paranoia often turned a deaf ear to logic.

Flynn put a hand on either side of her face. He held her there, forcing eye contact. “I will come back for you. It’s my fault you’re here.” He felt guilty for her capture and responsible for her release.

“Please.”

He sighed, unsure of how to proceed. Displaying all the hesitation of the world, Flynn covered his left hand with his right. With a twist, he removed his wedding ring, a token that was meant to stay on his finger forever, for better or worse. There was another pledge to make with it. He put the ring in Lucy’s hand and closed her fingers around the metal band. “I’m coming back for this,” he promised. “Do you trust me?”

She did.

Lucy believed his every assurance to return for her, to save her. She could not doubt such an oath. She did not even need to keep the ring. Giving it to her at all proved his sincerity.

“Say it,” he insisted.

With a nod, Lucy swore, “I trust you.”

Flynn touched her cheek and carried the hand up into her hair. “And I’m trusting you not to lose that.” He pulled away and left her sitting there. From the soldier, Flynn stole a knife, powder horn, and bag of lead balls. From the floor, he recovered the flintlock pistol. He brought it to Lucy. The weapon was armed, but it carried only one shot before emptying. “Tell me how to load this,” Flynn said. Lucy did not want to. Giving the man one bullet in the past was dangerous enough. The more times he reloaded it, the more damage he dealt. “Lucy! Tell me how to load this thing, damn it. If they kill me, I can’t exactly come back for you, now can I?”

“Okay!” she relented. “Okay, all right.”

Flynn was not pleased with her complicated answer, with the many steps of half-cocking the hammer, pouring powder down the barrel, stuffing the lead ball in cloth and ramming it in, placing more powder in the pan beneath the firing mechanism, and pulling the hammer back the rest of the way. He did not like the process, but he understood it. Flynn was intelligent, and Lucy did not doubt he comprehended everything she explained.

“Just don’t... use it unless you have to,” she pleaded, knowing it was like arguing with a brick wall.

“With a reloading method like that, I’m not sure I would want to,” he muttered.

“Flynn.”

He agreed in a conditional way. “If it’s me or them,” he said, “I choose me.” Lucy could request no greater sacrifice than that.

“Okay,” she allowed, “but only then.”

“Only then,” he agreed, though it may have been a lie. Lucy tried to trust him. “I’ll be back,” he said, “soon as I can. Hold onto that.” He pointed at his ring in Lucy’s closed hand. She nodded.

“Flynn,” Lucy called before he left. “Flynn.” He turned around. “I trust you,” she said again, reminding him of the faith she placed in his return.

He dipped his head, looking guilty. Either he regretted dragging her into the situation or he lied about coming back for her. Lucy had no choice but to trust him.

Flynn left.

The cell turned deathly silent. There was no sound inside or out, and Lucy felt herself entombed. The room became smaller. Her fear brought the walls further in. She hated small spaces.

Lucy hummed to distract herself, to take her mind off the fact that she was waiting for terrorist Garcia Flynn to save her. She hummed a song she did not know, forgetting every other tune she ever heard. The song she made was not art, but it kept her busy, even when it began repeating itself, going in circles like her worried head.

She held Flynn’s ring in a steadfast grip.

“The door’s open,” she heard, and Lucy cursed at herself for not noticing someone coming.

Two men walked into the cell. One had a lantern in his hand. The other held a musket. They observed the scene.

“He vanished,” remarked one of the men, and he was mystified that Flynn disappeared and put another in his place.

“Where did he go?” the other asked Lucy.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Where did he go?” he repeated in a harsher tone.

“I don’t know!”

“He is your friend,” the man argued.

“Clearly not,” Lucy sighed. Flynn left more than twenty minutes ago on a quest which should have taken less than five. Her hand tightened around the ring for reassurance.

He did not believe her. The sight on his musket found her breast. “Will it summon him if you are in danger?”

“It never has before,” she answered, and she closed her eyes instead of staring down the barrel of his gun.

“Tell us where he went!”

“Right here,” called a welcome and familiar voice.

Lucy opened her eyes. The soldier turned around. Flynn stood in the doorway with his modern gun against the temple of the man who carried the lantern. Lucy was so relieved to see him.

“Put down your musket,” Flynn ordered, “or I kill your friend.”

“You wouldn’t,” the man defied, “and certainly not with that.” They still did not understand Flynn’s gun. That was for the best.

“He can,” Lucy spoke up, “and he will.” She did not doubt it. “Please drop your weapon.”

Fearing for his life and that of his comrade in either situation, the man slowly put his musket on the floor and slid it over. Flynn caught it with his foot and raked it into the hall. He pushed his hostage forward. He shot him in the leg.

“Flynn!” Lucy shouted.

“One shot in an entire prison escape,” Flynn justified, congratulating himself on restraint. “He’ll be fine once pressure is put on the wound.” The previously armed soldier went to the aid of the other. Flynn stopped him. “You can save your friend,” he allowed, “after you release mine.” He tossed a set of keys to the man. Flynn’s gun remained fixed on his ailing victim, a motivation for Lucy’s safe deliverance. Her cuffs were unlocked without harm or subterfuge.

Lucy rubbed her wrists and stood with a bracing hand against the wall. Her tailbone was very sore from sitting on the stone floor so long, but she tried to ignore it. She walked to Flynn. He let her behind him and out into the safety of the hall.

“Go on,” he told the soldier, permitting him to see to his friend. “But give back those keys.” The soldier obeyed and tossed them over. Flynn shut the two men— and the unconscious one who came first— into the cell and locked it. “You all right?” he asked Lucy.

She avoided his question but thought of that as answer enough. “What took you so long?”

“Secured the fort,” he said. “Now, we can walk right out the front door.”

“And _where_  are the rest of the men?” Lucy asked, fearing the worst.

“Them I locked in one of the storage rooms I was telling you about,” he said. “Someone will find them in the morning. Don’t worry.”

“One shot?” she challenged, doubting how he pulled it all off without firing.

“One shot,” he confirmed, “in a leg.” He was very capable. “Let’s go.” He gestured at the set of steep stairs near the end of the hallway.

Flynn led with his gun at the ready. Lucy followed. They made it to the top of the stairs and around the three turns without incident. Lucy’s hands clenched with her want for safety. They twitched as they imagined her opening the door. She felt something.

“Oh! Uh, your ring,” Lucy prompted, remembering before Flynn. He held out his hand. Lucy turned the ring over and slid it onto his finger. She did not realize until it was halfway down that he most likely wanted it dropped in his palm, but she kept going until Flynn’s ring was back where it belonged.

“Thank you,” he murmured, and he regarded the small piece of jewelry he prized.

“You are...” She nodded her head. “Yeah, you’re welcome.” Lucy looked down at the dirty floor. She rocked on her feet. “Thank _you_ ,” she returned. “Thank you for... You came back for me.”

“I said I would.” They each knew he had no grounds upon which to sound offended, so he did not feign insult.

“Yeah, but... thank you,” Lucy said again. She thought twice about something she should have thought about three times. With a quick step into his personal space, Lucy hugged Flynn. She tried to keep it loose, tried to respect his standoffish nature, but she had been scared. Now, she felt safe.

Flynn patted her back with his free hand. He let her arms come around under his. But he did not return the full embrace. Instead, and after a moment, he cleared his throat. Lucy let go and backed away. Flynn pointed at the door which led outside and into the town. “Come on, witchy woman,” he said with a grin.

“Uh, you’re the witch,” Lucy stated. “I’m just your accomplice.”

“Bride of Satan,” he continued, “enchantress, conjurer, sorceress, wicked woman of the west, Baba Roga, _vještica_...”

“You’re the witch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let us all bask in the symbolism of Flynn sealing a promise to Lucy with a wedding ring


	14. Alter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: How the episode might have changed if Flynn and Lucy kissed in their first scene in the finale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plan I first had for this prompt was more low-impact in the beginning and culminated with their final scene. But then I reread that it asked how it would affect the episode. So affect the episode I did.
> 
> Finale AU!

Lucy stared out the window, observing people pass in vintage clothes and classic cars. Her hands crossed in front of her, presenting a patient, dignified stance. She waited. Lucy knew it was not coincidence or bad luck that she and Wyatt were targeted by McCarthy’s men.

The door to her conference room cell opened without warning or knock. Flynn closed the door back behind him. They were free to speak in private, as they so often did.

Lucy began the mission to 1954 with reservations against stopping Flynn. Over the past weeks, the concept nagged at her more and more, growing in size and inescapability as it snowballed. She knew he was right, but even now, she could not support his methods.

Flynn announced his plan to destroy Rittenhouse that night. He exercised enough courtesy and compassion to let Lucy know her grandfather would be there. He warned of potential fallout and consequence in her life. He was guilty. He could not look her in the eye.

“Why are you telling me this?” Lucy questioned, and she turned to look at him with more than peripheral vision. She stared at him as he stared shamefully at the floorboards.

Giving every respect he held for her— since before they even met— Flynn said, “I thought you deserved the truth.” He attempted a smile that faltered and fell. The reassurance it strove for was a self-aware fallacy.

“So you told me.” Lucy did not know what reaction he expected. In all Flynn did, she gave him understanding. She could not afford support. “What do you want from me, my blessing?”

“I don’t want anything from you,” he quickly dismissed with a scoff, deriding the assertion as if it were absurd and unprecedented.

“You don’t want anything from me?” Lucy retorted. Flynn always asked for so much. He always wanted from her. They knew it was a lie even now. His eyes were big and scared. His insecurities were exposed before her. “Because I think you do. I think deep down there’s some part— some human part of you— that wants me to stop you.” She saw too much. Flynn did not interrupt. He did not contradict. “God,” Lucy said, “I swear this game that we keep playing— nobody wins, nobody loses, people keep dying. What’s the body count so far?” If Flynn had an exact number in his head, he did not say it. “And for what?”

“Okay,” he objected, cutting her off, knowing her opinion, “now’s the time where you tell me what a monster I am?” Flynn put words in both their mouths. It was an opinion he assumed on Lucy’s part but arrived at all on his own. He was wrong.

“I don’t think you’re a monster anymore.” She shook her head. “I used to.” Again, Flynn could not look at her. He only had confidence against Lucy when he was right and she was wrong. “But now, I just think that you’re sad,” such a simple three-letter word consumed and defined that strong man, “and you’re lonely.” He had no one. Flynn lost his family. He killed or alienated his allies. “I think you’re a broken person.” Flynn glanced at Lucy but slowly dropped his eyes to the floor, weighed down by the burden of her hard-hitting words. “Who misses the people that they love, just like me, just like Wyatt.”

Flynn could suffer any emotion but empathy. His loss, as he considered it, was greater than all others, greater than Lucy’s, greater than Wyatt’s. “Don’t talk about my family like you know them,” he commanded.

“You want to stop Rittenhouse,” Lucy said, “we’ll help you, but not like this.” Lucy was utterly, desperately sincere. She shared Flynn’s beliefs that something must be done. She could not ignore that truth, but she could not permit mass murder.

Flynn came upon her with great stalking steps. His shoulders came up as his back arched down. He towered over Lucy. She did not shy away. She did not show cowardice and uncertainty against intimidation, not even when Flynn asked a question she could not answer: “How?” His smile was wrong. There was no happiness. Flynn felt no happiness. He took what pleasures and reassurance he could find in life, like watching Lucy fumble for an alternative. If she could think of nothing, then there was truly nothing. Flynn earnestly waited for her suggestion. He waited until Lucy dropped eye contact in defeat. “You don’t know,” he presumed. Lucy tried to speak in her defense but had nothing to offer. Flynn was right. “Because there is no other way.”

Nothing more was said. They both knew, regrettably, that was the last word of a conversation neither wanted to end. Lucy did not want Flynn to leave and prepare for the unthinkable. Flynn did not want to say goodbye to Lucy.

Green and brown eyes stared into each other, delaying the inevitable. Flynn’s expression softened. His rage faded. He never could keep it going very long with her. The half-life of his resentment was always a fleeting thing, youthful and snuffed in its crib.

Flynn licked his lips, as he was wont to do. He glanced at Lucy’s, as he never did.

If it was to be their end, there was no reason to watch it wither with regrets and “what-ifs?”

Flynn leaned further down and closer in. He hesitated.

He hesitated.

He kissed Lucy.

There was little pressure and no force. Flynn gave her the right and the ability to back out at any time. The kiss met his want, his desire, but he understood if she did not share it.

Lucy was too stunned to react immediately. Flynn’s slow approach benefited no time for thought, not when she wasted those long, dragging seconds convinced she misread his intent— even when it was alarmingly obvious. For an equally long, and equally short, gap of time, Lucy stood there completely frozen.

Flynn kissed a still statue. He was the fruitless Pygmalion, and his desperation increased as his confidence waned. He misinterpreted what was between them, and he realized that.

Lucy wanted to grip his face or clutch his tie and demand from where such brazenness came. She did not. She experienced what she felt instead of acting on first impulse. Flynn was kissing her, and that meant something. It meant— as could not, and would never, be denied— he had feelings for her. The kiss he gave— the kiss he stole— was not platonic. He wanted more than that. Lucy wondered what would happen if she gave it to him.

Just when Flynn’s nerve finally failed and he pulled away, Lucy stepped forward. She kissed him back, and with his height, it was a difficult thing to chase. She leaned closer in her high heels and stood further on her toes.

Reversing roles, now Flynn was surprised. His shock was much more brief. He overcame it much more quickly. His head came back down, and Lucy’s feet touched the ground.

Strong hands hesitated and hovered in the air, not daring to touch. Lucy made the first move. She pressed her hands against his chest and moved them with a gentle, calming stroke. Flynn considered it permission given. His hands cradled her jaw, outlining her face, keeping her there, confirming her presence. Thumbs caressed Lucy’s cheek, and fingers grazed the nape of her neck. Flynn took such special care to not mess her hair. There was an unavoidable end to their dalliance, and they would need to look presentable when that happened. But it was an act neither of them wanted to end. Lucy did not want Flynn to leave and prepare for the unthinkable. Flynn did not want to say goodbye to Lucy. She complicated his choice further.

Lucy moved her hand inward. She grabbed Flynn’s tie and pulled him forward as she moved back, forcing him to follow. He did not break up their kiss. He continued it, changing the angle, spurred on by her initiative. The backs of Lucy’s legs knocked against the solid wood of the conference table. With barely any hesitation, Flynn picked her up and sat her on it. He leaned over her, across legs modestly bound together by a long pencil skirt.

Flynn’s hands rested on the tabletop, and he put his weight on them, surrounding Lucy on both sides with his arms, pressing against her knees with his body. An end could no longer be anticipated or predicted. It was decided for them.

The sole of a hard shoe walked over wooden boards in the hall. The person did not enter, did not disturb them, but simply the act of passing by frightened Flynn and Lucy back into their senses. They pulled away from each other.

Flynn looked ashamedly at the floor. He licked his lips and then wiped them with the back of his hand. Lucy stared at her lap before sliding off the table. Her skirt was perfectly in order, but she smoothed it out regardless. She touched her hair and stood up straight. Lucy found composure quicker than Flynn.

“What was that?” she asked, retaining an authoritative persona when he could not. After all, they were not led by her impulse.

Flynn did not know. He was not sure and could not answer. “We may... not see each other again,” he lamented. “I wanted to...” There was no end to his sentence. He could not confidently explain the irrational.

“You wanted to.” Lucy helped him realize motive was unnecessary. She finished the statement where he left it hanging. That was all there was to it.

“Yes,” Flynn confirmed. He wanted to kiss Lucy, so he did. “Yes.” His voice was gruff. He cleared his throat and took a step back. He situated the tie Lucy had mussed, laying it back down the middle of his shirt and securing it with the metal tie clip. His hands crossed behind his back, maintaining a modest figure as he stood up straight and to his full height. Flynn looked perfectly presentable, ready to step out into the hall and attract no stares, no suspicions.

“Don’t leave,” Lucy asked.

Flynn was finally able to look her in the eye again. “If you think this changes anything—”

“It doesn’t.” Lucy was not foolish. Flynn was a master of detaching himself from his emotions. He sacrificed his soul for his mission. He could easily forsake a relationship before its start. It was a comparably simple obstacle. “Take me with you.”

“No.” He was rightfully worried over what interference she could manufacture.

“I’m alone,” Lucy said. “Just me. I’m unarmed.” She was physically weaker as well but did not comment on the obvious. “I can’t stop you, Flynn.”

“You saved General Grant,” he stated. “You let John Rittenhouse go. You forget, Lucy, I’m the one person who will... never... underestimate you. I’ve learned my lesson from the times I did.”

“Take me with you,” she asked again. “It’s not a trick.” Not even she could tell if that were a lie. “Take me with you and we can _think_  of an alternative. We can carry out your plan if there isn’t one.” Lucy came closer to him. She touched his arm and pulled until he let it go from behind his back. She held his large hand in hers. “Let me save my grandfather. Let me keep him from the meeting.”

“He’s a leader,” Flynn argued, “invited to the summit for a reason. They all have to go, Lucy.” He was apologetic. He did not take back his hand and, instead, let it rest in hers like comfort and physical proof.

“He can’t rebuild Rittenhouse on his own.”

“It started with one man before,” Flynn reminded her. “It can happen again.”

“No, you don’t know that,” Lucy insisted. “Maybe he’ll give up. Maybe he...” She did not know the man and could not predict him. She used logic. “He can’t repair Rittenhouse to the state it’s in now. He can’t... redo two hundred years of progress in just sixty. It won’t be as operational in the present. Rittenhouse won’t be able to spare men to take out you and your family.”

Flynn gently took his hand away. “You’re asking a lot,” he murmured.

“You’re asking to risk my life,” Lucy replied.

“Your father’s already born,” Flynn told her, “a child.”

“But growing up without _his_  father can change anything,” Lucy said, “everything.”

“That’s the plan.”

“What if he doesn’t meet my mother?” She was asking Flynn to spare her life. “Regimes can- can fall quickly, but they need time to gain power. One man,” she asserted, “can’t do it all. After I’m born...” It was a cold sentiment, but Lucy did not care what happened to her father. She did not care what happened to her grandfather. “You’re right,” she said. He was. “Rittenhouse _needs_  to be stopped. But it can be done another way. It can be done without dozens of people dying, without me being a casualty.”

“It can be done one way,” Flynn maintained. He had a plan and he was convinced it was the only one. “But maybe we can...” It troubled him to concede, to leave anything to chance. “Maybe we can, uh, spare your grandfather.”

Lucy smiled at him, and it took all of Flynn’s resolve not to smile back. She headed for the door. “We have to get Wyatt.”

Flynn stepped between her and the exit. “No,” he refused. He could allow Lucy to tag along, but Wyatt was a gun and hand-to-hand combat. He was a kill order who could only be warded off through bribery of information. Flynn had none for him at the moment. “Wyatt can handle himself.”

“He can help,” Lucy insisted.

“He can,” Flynn agreed, “but I think we both know he won’t.” Wyatt despised Flynn. Mere hours ago, he talked about putting him down, taking him out, as had always been his mission. He was less willing to compromise. “You come with me— alone,” Flynn said, “or you stay here... in custody.” She had two options, no more, no less.

“Okay.” Lucy nodded her head. “All right.” She did not want to let Flynn out of her sight. She grabbed her coat, gloves, and purse. “Let’s go.” Wyatt could handle himself. If not, Lucy would come back for him. She would come back when it was all over.

“One more thing,” Flynn interrupted, stopping her from leaving.

“What?”

With greatly acted nonchalance, Flynn bent down and kissed Lucy one more time. It was quick and chaste, as if all he did was experiment— experiment if that prior spark remained or was a fluke. It was there. Lucy felt it. Then it was gone. Flynn opened the door. “That’s all.” Lucy walked through and Flynn closed it behind him. “We’ll take the stairs down the hall,” he said, “go out the backdoor. Strictly speaking, this is a jailbreak.” He grinned, finding humor in the fact that he made Lucy a prisoner and now a fugitive.

She followed Flynn closely and together, they avoided detection. He had a car parked down the street, and Lucy climbed into the passenger seat. They were alone.

“Where are your men?” she asked. It was not a rarity for Flynn to work alone, but a mission so important was best suited to have all hands on deck. “The one who’s always following you around,” she said, remembering his name was, “Karl, where is he?”

“Not here.” He gave Lucy no better answer.

“What else are you planning?” If Flynn was delegating tasks, spreading resources across a grand plot, Lucy felt she had a right to know.

“Lucy,” Flynn said in a stern voice, warning her against pursuing the subject, “drop it.”

She did, knowing he could kick her out and abandon their delicate partnership at any time.

“My grandfather,” Lucy said, “my mother told me that she met him once, that he was a White House aide.” She knew where to find him, where to abduct him.

“I know,” Flynn said. Of course he did. He hunkered over in the seat and grabbed insulated tubing that wrapped around exposed wires. He twisted two wires together and struck another two together. The car sparked to life.

“You’re pretty good at that,” Lucy remarked, and she was impressed.

“Pretty good,” he agreed. Flynn sat upright and put the car in gear.

The sun set early in February. Already, it hid behind tall buildings and cast long shadows. The work day would end soon.

Flynn drove right to her grandfather’s car as if he planned the route. They passed a sign that reserved parking for Ethan Cahill. The red convertible in the space was empty, so Flynn found the first vacant parking spot for them to wait in and watch from. He let the engine idle a moment before reaching down to untwist two wires. The car died. He waited and then twisted them back together, ready to go at short notice.

“Really good at that,” Lucy amended. Flynn certainly knew what he was doing.

He sat back in the seat. They watched the sun set, taking with it any warmth of daylight. A soft snow began to flutter down, catching in trees and on cars. It accumulated on their windshield but was not substantial enough to obscure the view.

Snowfall always brought dead quiet, even in a city. When Flynn spoke, it startled Lucy, despite its gentle volume. “You cold?”

“Uh,” she stammered, surprised by the considerate inquiry, “no.” She had gloves, sleeves, and layers. Only her exposed calves were a little chilly. “No, not really.”

Flynn nodded his head and resumed the silence. There was a discussion they needed to have, but it was clear neither of them wanted to address what happened in the conference room. There were more important matters at hand.

They waited for Ethan to leave work, but apparently he was devoted. Time slipped by. Flynn became anxious, and Lucy knew he was counting every minute he lost in the window to act against Rittenhouse. She said nothing, fully aware Flynn did not want assurances for a concern she did not share. Lucy busied her hands to fill time and ease tension.

Flynn stared at the parking lot. His focus seemed intense, but he betrayed that it was split. “What’s that?” he asked.

“What?” Lucy glanced out the windshield and saw nothing, no new development.

“In your hand,” Flynn clarified.

“It’s...” Lucy reached behind her neck and unfastened the small clasp. She handed the locket to Flynn, and he held it in the scant light coming in from a streetlamp. “It’s my sister,” she told him, “Amy. I always keep it on me because now I never know... I never know what will disappear, what I’ll lose.” Flynn did not dismiss Lucy’s sorrow. He did not hastily study and discard the pictures in the locket. “Is she in the journal?” Lucy had to ask.

“Yes,” Flynn confirmed, but he did not go into detail. He shut the locket with a click and returned it to her. “I’m more concerned with the fact you have this.”

Lucy fastened the locket back around her neck and let it slip beneath her blouse to stay hidden. “I don’t understand it either,” she admitted. “Connor Mason said that... because it existed outside time, outside of the... damn time change, that it was unaffected, even after Amy disappeared.”

Flynn let the information turn over in his brain. He was a very smart man, capable of connecting related and unrelated threads of intelligence. “Then you’re not at risk,” he concluded. “ _You_  exist outside of time, Lucy, and you were, uh, conveniently quiet about it.” He was very displeased with her over the revelation but was becoming acclimated Lucy’s duplicity. He leaned down to grab the hanging wires under the dash and jolt the car to life.

“Wait, wait.” Lucy put her hand over his, and he stopped. “It’s still a risk,” she said. “I’m not a locket, Flynn. We don’t... know what will happen.” He sighed and looked up at her. “Even if I survive, I might— I don’t know— not have a- a life to go back to.”

“I know people,” was all he said. It was enough to represent seedy relationships with individuals who could forge a new identity and paper trail spanning Lucy’s entire life. Flynn flicked her hand away and resumed striking the wires against each other.

“Please.”

He stopped again. One pitiful, pleading word and he stopped. He would trust Lucy. He would help his partner. With a long, frustrated growl, Flynn sat upright.

“Thank you,” Lucy said.

“Shut up.” He did not want to hear her gratitude. It was nothing but evidence towards increasing weakness. He let his left hand rest on the steering wheel, holding it with a lax grip, as if they casually drove down a long stretch of road. “We save your grandfather,” he permitted. “But I _will_  take care of the rest of Rittenhouse.” It was their standing agreement.

Lucy did not repeat her acquiescence. She still had not come up with a better idea, and Flynn’s plot remained the best chance at taking down Rittenhouse. It was the most violent.

His right hand was a tight fist on the seat between them. When Lucy grazed it with a soft touch, he first flinched and then relaxed. She opened his hand up and held it. Flynn reciprocated, wrapping long fingers around her. Lucy turned in the seat, bringing her knee up and over as far as her skirt would allow. She gripped his hand in both of hers, holding the rough skin between the fabric of her gloves. Flynn watched Lucy raise it to her lips and place a tender kiss on the back, on his fingers, on each knuckle in between. He was so malleable, so hopeful, so delicate before her.

“I know that you’re not a bad man,” she said. He was a good one who lost his way. “I know that you’re hurting.” She pitied him. Her heart hurt for him. “I know you don’t want to kill all those people.”

Flynn sniffed. He moved his hand in Lucy’s, not pulling it away but not letting it rest deathly still in her grip. Their hands swayed back and forth like a slow pendulum. They watched only that hypnotic motion. “I don’t want to kill them,” he confessed. Lucy knew that. He simply confirmed. “I have to kill them, to put my wife and child back on this earth.”

Lucy doubted it would work, but she held her criticism until the last minute, when Flynn could not easily get rid of her.

She looked out at the soft, snowy night and saw, “That’s him.” Flynn pulled his hand away and reached for the door handle. Lucy grabbed him. “Not now,” she stated.

“Why not grab him now?” Flynn huffed.

“Someone might see,” Lucy said, “someone who could call the police.” It was dangerous to act while still in the city. The seclusion of the Rittenhouse summit was a much safer target area. “We know where he’s going. We’ll follow him to the meeting and grab him before he goes in.”

Flynn made an exaggerated gesture of turning his wrist over to check the time. His watch lit the cabin with a blue glow. “I have to prepare for the summit,” he said. “If you think you can run the clock down by leading us around Washington—”

“No,” Lucy interrupted. “That’s not it.” She knew Flynn would not tolerate or forgive such a ruse. “The car,” she prompted, “hurry.”

Flynn leaned down and set to starting the car. It took him a few tries, and Lucy kept an eye on which direction Ethan went.

They drove in quiet, tailing her grandfather down intersections, long roads, then twists and turns.

“This is not the way to the summit,” Flynn said. He had an address and, knowing him, had already memorized the route to get there.

“Maybe he knows a back way,” Lucy proposed, “a shortcut.”

“Or _maybe_ ,” he said, “he knows we’re following him.”

“You’re being...” Lucy did not finish her statement. She knew how Flynn detested being called paranoid, crazy. “Don’t you think,” she reasoned, “McCarthy could have been lying to you?” Flynn did not answer. He could not confidently contradict it. “I’m assuming he told you the information under duress.”

“I’ll give it another ten minutes,” Flynn granted. “Then I’m turning around. If your grandfather wants to drive across the city all night, he’ll save himself and we won’t have to.”

It did not take the full ten minutes. Ethan pulled up to an old, ornate building. It was not the address Flynn was given. He was beyond frustrated, and Lucy could tell. Either McCarthy lied to him or they were wasting time.

With a angered snort of air through his nose, Flynn turned off the car. His temper was a liability.

“Wait,” Lucy cried.

“What?” barked Flynn.

Lucy kissed him. She leaned across the wide seat of their stolen car, grabbed him by the sleeve, and kissed him. Flynn was immediately responsive. “Don’t kill him,” Lucy whispered against his lips.

“No,” he agreed around a quiet smacking sound. “No.” Killing Ethan Cahill risked Lucy’s life in one way or another, and she was convincing Flynn against taking that chance. He did not want to take it. Suddenly, he pulled away and shoved Lucy back across the seat. “He’s getting away.” Flynn got out of the car and slammed the door.

His moods were so wildly unpredictable, Lucy was obligated to follow. Flynn stopped at the corner of the building. Lucy kept going, but he grabbed her around the arm and squeezed.

“Too late,” he said. “I’m afraid your grandfather’s already inside.” He was sympathetic to Lucy’s plight for existence, but, “We can’t exactly walk in the front door.”

Lucy pulled her arm away and Flynn let go. “Why not?” she said. “Can’t look them in the eye before you murder them?”

As if to make a point and prove his determination, Flynn reconsidered an entrance. “Lady’s first,” he said.

“We’ll get him away from the group,” Lucy suggested. “Tell him there’s an emergency, a phone call.” Flynn grunted in reply. The lead was hers. Every foolish plan was hers— until he had to intervene.

They walked through the front door, and Lucy was prompted by a man to check her coat. She looked at Flynn, knowing he would not appreciate anything that delayed a hasty exit. He moved behind Lucy and helped her out of her coat. “We’ll leave it,” he whispered in her ear, sharing her thoughts and already accepting the worst outcome. Flynn left the coat with the attendant.

Soothing jazz whispered through the door and into the entryway. Flynn and Lucy stepped between curtains and observed the gathering. Lucy was anxious. Flynn was tense. He was on edge, calculating how long it would take to pull his gun. From the corner of her eye, Lucy watched him slowly undo the button of his jacket and make his weapon accessible. She put her hand over his to calm him.

The room before them was full of men who greeted Ethan warmly and rather affectionately. They whispered closely in each other’s ears and came away blushing. It was not the atmosphere of a manipulative terrorist organization.

“This isn’t Rittenhouse,” Flynn said, voicing the realization they arrived at simultaneously.

“No,” Lucy haltingly agreed, “I think this might be a gay bar.”

Flynn relaxed, but Lucy saw him compulsively check his watch. “It would appear,” Flynn remarked with a somewhat amused tone, “I’m only the second-most powerful threat to your having been born.”

“I exist,” Lucy said. She watched her grandfather order a drink and begin a conversation with a man at the bar. It all happened without their interference. It always happened.

“Which _means_ ,” Flynn reasoned, “Ethan is very, _very_  covert with his, uh, extramarital affairs.”

“It’s 1954,” Lucy explained. “You could be arrested for being gay.”

“Excellent,” Flynn said, and it was not the response she expected. However, it preceded his next plan. “Then we’ll have no trouble getting him to come with us.” He buttoned his jacket. A gun would not be necessary.

“Don’t...” Lucy whispered before breaking off in a sigh. She yielded. “Don’t blackmail him too badly.”

“Oh, that depends entirely on him,” Flynn insisted.

Lucy reconsidered again. “Let me do the talking.”

Flynn deferred authority to her. “Whatever gets him in the car quickest.” It was no new development that Flynn cared more about the end result than the method imployed getting there. They waited to get Ethan alone and watched him have a superficial conversation at the bar. Flynn kept vigilance despite the unhostile environment. “Well,” he commented as he gauged the room, “I’m certainly getting a lot of looks.”

Lucy saw a young man a few yards away gander up and down his tall physique with a suggestive eye. Flynn nodded politely in response, and Lucy experienced an odd sense of jealousy. “I get the feeling it’s not every day someone like you walks in,” she said. It made Flynn grin, and surprisingly, she liked the ease with which they could now subtly compliment each other. Lucy went a step further and spoke outright. “You... are... attractive,” she admitted. It felt like coming clean about a lie, though she never said anything to the contrary.

“And you’re beautiful,” Flynn said with much less difficulty.

Lucy barely kept herself from blushing, and she was grateful that fortune gave her an out because she had no idea what to say next. “He’s alone.” The man at the bar walked away and Ethan watched him leave with an admiring gaze and a grin. He turned back to his drink. “Let me do the talking,” Lucy said once more, making certain Flynn remembered. He stayed an obedient distance behind her and tried to copy Lucy’s casualness when she walked up and rested her arm on the bar. “Excuse me,” she said. “Are you Ethan, Ethan Cahill?”

Ethan had a very pleasant smile when he lied to them. “No,” he answered, “sorry. You’re mistaken.”

Lucy did not have to look back to guess Flynn was frowning. “No,” she assured Ethan, “we’re not cops.”

That concerned him almost as greatly. He came closer and spoke to her in a subdued whisper. “I don’t know what you think you saw here,” he said, trying to maintain some authority, “but I have a wife and son to get back to, so—”

“We know,” Lucy interrupted before he left— before Flynn stepped in. “His name is Ben.”

“How do you know that?” Ethan asked. Lucy could not think of a good answer. She looked at Flynn for suggestions, but he refused to contribute unless asked outright. It was Lucy’s discussion, as she insisted. Ethan looked between them. He reached into his jacket pocket. “Okay,” he said, ready to bargain, “how much do you want? I’ve got about $50.”

“We don’t want your money,” Lucy said. She wanted compliance to his own kidnapping, but there was no tactful way to ask for it.

“Mr. Cahill,” Flynn butted in. He stepped around Lucy and stood at her side. “We believe it would be in your best interest if you follow us outside, sir.”

Ethan swallowed with fear, but they held every card and he could not disobey. He nodded and followed them to the entryway. Flynn helped Lucy back into her coat and they left the private establishment.

“Keep walking to your car,” Flynn instructed, and he may as well have aimed his gun for all the weight his presence carried. He was intimidating.

“We’re not going to hurt you,” Lucy promised.

“No, actually it’s quite the opposite,” Flynn said. “We’re keeping you from attending the Rittenhouse summit.”

“Ritten...” Ethan was shocked at their knowledge of Rittenhouse but did not insult them by denying its existence, not like so many members before him. “How do you know about—”

“Give me your keys,” Flynn ordered. Ethan did not dare defy him. He handed them over. “Get in the front seat.” Flynn passed on the keys. “Lucy, you drive.” He climbed into the back with a gun in his hand, watching for any sign of treachery from Ethan, waiting for an excuse. There came none. Ethan was an obedient hostage. He was too confused and too nervous to act any other way.

They left the city completely and drove into a dark night with no stars. A waning crescent moon flitted in and out of clouds and lit the fallen snow, making it glow. Lucy drove where Flynn instructed. She took the turns he said.

A name was one thing. Knowledge of the summit was another. Exact directions to the summit let Ethan know they were perfectly aware of what evil they fought. He took them seriously, which meant that for a long while he said nothing.

Lucy peeked at Ethan while she drove. She was curious about him and got away with that peeping curiosity for several minutes. He glanced back at her, and Lucy quickly put her eyes on the road.

“You look familiar to me,” he said.

“My father is in Rittenhouse,” Lucy replied, and it was only a temporal lie. “Maybe you’ve met him before.”

“What do you want with them,” Ethan asked, “with Rittenhouse?”

“Does it matter?” Flynn spoke up from the backseat. “You won’t be participating in tonight’s event.”

“He’s going to kill them all,” Lucy said. She looked in her mirror at Flynn. He licked his lips nervously and looked at the floorboards ashamedly. “Everyone except for you.”

“Why me?” Ethan asked. He looked at Flynn and then at Lucy, feeling he had better chances getting an answer from her. “Why are you singling me out? What makes me special?”

“Lucy insisted on it,” Flynn said. “She thinks you’re worth saving. Personally,” he leaned forward and rested his gun on the back of their seat, “I’m waiting for you to prove her wrong.” Nothing would comfort Flynn more than complete eradication.

“You want to kill everyone in Rittenhouse?” Ethan questioned.

“Yes,” he confirmed.

“Why?”

Flynn would not say, so Lucy answered on his behalf. “Rittenhouse murdered his family.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Ethan said, “truly. I mean it.”

“You work for them,” Flynn laughed. His tone was condescending. He did not care for Ethan, a man who benefited from the organization.

“I didn’t want to,” Ethan swore. “I’ve never... wanted to. I don’t want to.” He looked ahead at the dark road lit by headlights. “If Rittenhouse finds out the truth about me—”

“What, they’ll kick you out?” Flynn presumed.

“No, they’ll kill me, too,” he said. Lucy felt such sadness and offense for him. Ethan’s face contorted with despair. He sobbed without crying. His voice broke. “I love my wife,” he insisted. “I love my son. It’s just— It’s a bad habit. It’s a sick habit. I keep trying to stop. I- I tried the shock therapy. It’s just- it- you know...”

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Ethan,” Lucy said in a calm, comforting voice, but it was difficult to instill progressive thinking in the past. “Nothing.” Ethan wanted to believe her. His desperation for that modicum of understanding was pitiful.

Behind them, Flynn added in, saying, “She’s right, you know.” He shook his head. “Well, insomuch as, uh, attraction is concerned.” Allegiances were another matter.

“Who are you people?” Ethan demanded. They were so different than any standard acquaintance in the 50s.

“We’re the people saving your life,” Flynn said.

“By not killing me,” Ethan remarked, separating the suspicious mercy from altruistic heroism.

“We’re people you can trust,” Lucy promised.

And Ethan believed her. Somehow, he believed her. He looked at Lucy with such soulful eyes, eyes that glistened with unshed tears. He nodded his head along and looked forward. “When I was eighteen,” he said, “my father caught me with a... friend.” He raised his eyebrows emphatically, implying something more, knowing they would catch onto what exactly. “And after he spent the better part of an hour whipping me with his belt, he sat me down and told me all about Rittenhouse.” Ethan paused and licked his lips. The truth troubled him to that very day. “At the time,” he told them, “I thought I’d rather he beat me all over again than be part of something like that.” Ethan’s timidity slipped away. His pervading emotions were a burning resentment and hatred. “If the two of you do destroy Rittenhouse,” he concluded, “I just might thank you.” Lucy watched Ethan and gauged his sincerity. He seemed completely honest in all he said, and she knew even Flynn had trouble doubting it. Ethan wanted them to succeed.

Lucy drove the car another half-mile and pulled over as soon as there was space on the side of the road. The brakes squeaked. She left the car running but put it in park. “I need to talk with you,” she said to Flynn, “outside.”

Flynn looked back and forth between Lucy and her grandfather. Whatever she had to say was important and secret. “If you get out of this car,” he warned Ethan, “if you try to run, if you... open the door for a little fresh air, I’ll shoot you.” He said the threat— the promise— so seriously it could not be disputed. “Do you understand?”

Ethan nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’ll stay here. I’ll stay right... I’ll stay here.”

“Good man.”

Lucy exited the car and folded the seat forward so Flynn could climb out. He closed the door behind them. Snow crunched under their feet as they walked a few yards past the car. Frigid air whipped through bare trees and bit at their exposed faces. Lucy’s coat protected her arms and body, but cold scratched her legs. She did not want to be outside any longer than necessary.

“What?” Flynn demanded. The closer they got to the meeting, the more impatient he became. He guessed the time had come for Lucy’s ineffective plan.

“Please,” she asked before he could start. “I don’t want to fight.”

“And yet you’re going to suggest something for us to fight over,” he assumed. “I told you, Lucy. I told you what I was going to do. I never lied. I never downplayed it. They’re all going to be in one place, and I’m going to end this, once and for all.”

“What if it doesn’t have to be that way?” Lucy said. Flynn scoffed and paced away from her, turned his back to her. “What you’re planning,” she told him, “it won’t work.”

Flynn rounded on Lucy and yelled in her face. “You don’t know that,” he claimed against her, pleaded with her, “and I know you’d do the same!” He took a deep breath and lowered voice. Warm air puffed out of mouth as visible vapor when he spoke. There were tears in his eyes. “You would do the same,” he said again, “for Amy.” Flynn thought it was a moral victory over Lucy. He thought she was no better than him.

“You’re right,” she admitted, saying exactly what he wanted to hear. “You’re right,” she repeated, saying exactly what he did not want to hear. “I would.” She was no better than him. It was what the trips were teaching her. Lucy was learning how far she would go. She moved her own boundary at every turn, pushing it farther and farther back. She knew that, in time, one day, she would easily catch up with Flynn. And that was why they had to stop. “We are all so caught up in our grief,” she said, “in our past, in our pain, and we can’t let go, so we just continue to hurt more people.” Her words hit Flynn and affected him greatly. It was their reality, their selfish reality.

“I prayed to God,” Flynn whispered, “for answers.” His lip quivered as he doubted his own conviction. He looked down the road and Lucy followed his gaze. There, almost a mile away, sat a mansion upon a hill, lit from ground to roof in a way that denoted a large gathering. Without asking, Lucy knew he looked at the Rittenhouse summit. It was so close to him. “And He led me here, to this.” He took a deep breath through his nose, and it stuttered like a sob when it fell from his trembling lips in a white cloud.

Lucy came closer to him, so close. She could almost feel his body heat. With utmost sincerity, with honest consideration, she said, “What if He led you to me?” It was not the response Flynn expected. It was not a response he might ever have expected. His head twitched in an erratic nod as he tried to process it. He was listening. He was willing to hear her. He would hear someone who thought they were meant to find each other and be together. He was listening. Lucy felt an overwhelming responsibility not to let him down. “I know a way that we can _really_  take out Rittenhouse,” she said. She had a plan that finalized itself as she spoke. “We have to stop trying to fix the past and focus on the present. Please,” she begged, and Flynn was so desperate for an alternative, he kept listening. “I know what to do now. Please, before it’s too late.” Flynn sniffed. It was loud in the winter night, where the only other sound within a mile was the car’s engine. Flynn wanted to believe her. He waited to believe her. “The journal,” Lucy said, citing his guide, using his most trusted source of information, “didn’t it say that we were going to work together?” It was the goal he wanted third in life, behind the resurrection of his family, behind the dismantlement of Rittenhouse. He wanted their partnership. He needed her. “Today’s that day,” she asserted. “Look how far we got, Flynn, together. We did it.” He looked over her shoulder at the mansion on the hill. Lucy dragged his attention back to her. “You helped me today... Flynn,” she said. “You spared my grandfather _for me_. So please,” she asked, “please... let me help you.” She wanted to save Rittenhouse from death. She wanted to remove them from power. She wanted what was best for Flynn. She had no other motive, and from her, he had nothing to fear. “Do you trust me?”

Flynn looked at her with big, pleading eyes. He wanted to trust her. “What?” His voice was weak and broken. He cleared his throat and tried again. “What is it you have in mind?”

“We use Ethan,” Lucy told him. She explained it very generally because there were still finer details she had yet to iron out. “It can work.” A cold wind blew and Lucy shivered. Flynn stepped between her and it. He shielded her from the worst of the gust.

“I can’t,” he apologized. Her plan was too uncertain.

“You can,” Lucy stated. “And you want to.” She knew him well by now. “You don’t want to kill those people. Please.” Lucy had begged Flynn to forgo murder before, when she stood between him and John Rittenhouse. He denied her then. “Please.” Lucy’s hand was warm in her glove. She could not feel Flynn’s skin, but she imagined it was chilled when she took his hand in hers. “Please. I don’t want you to do this.” She wanted to save Flynn from himself. She wanted to preserve what was left of his soul. He was too reckless with the precious thing, and she took responsibility of its care. He wanted to trust her. He did. Lucy gave him a backup guarantee that would satisfy all doubt. “This isn’t the only meeting,” she said, “right? If this doesn’t work, we can- we can go back further.”

“We?” He put such fearful optimism in that two-letter word.

“We,” Lucy confirmed. She would go with Flynn, accompany him to however many eras and however many summits it took. She was all the guarantee he needed.

Flynn touched her face. His hand was cold, as Lucy knew it would be. She did not care. She rested her cheek against his gentle palm. Flynn leaned down and kissed her. His mouth was warm. “Okay,” he surrendered. “Okay, Lucy.” She won. He let her win. It was the victory they both wanted. It was a plan they agreed on together.

Lucy drew back. “Ethan could be watching.”

“Let him watch.” It changed nothing. Flynn was unashamed. He was excited to kiss Lucy and proud to show off their burgeoning relationship, even with her grandfather watching. He had all the enthusiasm and negligence of a teenager. He wanted to celebrate.

Flynn’s arms wrapped around her, and he was such a warm, comforting presence. He was so strong, and it felt good to be held by that strength instead of assaulted by it, dragged around by it. They moved back and forth in a languid sway.

When they pulled away, white vapor exited both their mouths before mingling, disappearing, and being immediately replaced. Lucy ducked her head down and rested it on his chest. Flynn’s gravely voice rumbled against her ear.

“You trust him that much,” he asked of Ethan, “a man you just met?” Flynn stroked her neck and fingered the short, stray hairs at her nape.

“I do,” Lucy said. She would not suggest using him otherwise. “Do you trust me?”

“I do.” If it were anyone else, he would never take the chance. Flynn left nothing to chance, and he did not consider Lucy’s ingenuity as such. “You stopped me too many times for it to be dumb luck.” Lucy pulled back from him and saw a smile. “Kiss me again.”

“It’s cold.” Lucy wanted to get back in the car.

“Kiss me.”

It was the least he deserved. She pushed her lips against his. She opened and closed them with audible little smacks. They tilted their heads to get closer. The tip of Flynn’s sharp nose pressed into her cheek. His hands rested tamely on her back, rubbing with gentle pressure. Lucy put her gloved fingers on his neck and on his face. She wanted to take off the ridiculous things. She wanted to feel him. But it was cold. Lucy broke the kiss.

“You’re pretty good at that,” she panted, trying and failing to not sound worn out from such a simple exertion.

Flynn shrugged with a smirk. “You’re not so bad yourself, Lucy.” As with most things (talking, acting, planning), they were very good together, naturally compatible. Flynn looked at the car and chuckled. “He’s probably thinking the worst about his situation.”

“Come on.” Lucy took his hand and led them back to the warm car. “We have to go to the _Lifeboat_ ,” she said.

“Why?” Flynn did not think Lucy escorted him to a trap, but neither was he willing to take a chance on her team.

“Because Ethan needs to know how it works,” she said. “He needs to _see_  it work. Wyatt should be back there already. That’s the plan if we ever get separated.” She hoped Wyatt returned to the _Lifeboat_  and was not out scouring the city for her. She hoped Rufus was not doing the same thing, especially with his gunshot wound. “I’ll go with you, Flynn,” Lucy promised, “in the _Mothership_. I’ll leave with you so I can’t... change anything after you’re gone.” She would not leave his side. “But we have to do this first.”

“All right,” he agreed. It made sense and he could not object.

They got back in the car. Flynn kept his gun tucked away. He had decided to trust the man, Lucy’s grandfather, her family.

“Well?” Ethan prompted, drowning in curiosity and concern.

Lucy put the car in drive and made a sharp turn to take them back the way they came. “Not today,” she said. Rittenhouse received a sixty-year pardon.

“Not to... When?” He was anxious for an end to it all. He would have to wait.

“I can’t explain yet,” Lucy told him. “But soon.”

“Don’t worry,” Flynn cheerily said. “You’re still not dispensable.” Ethan was safe.

By the time they neared the city, it was early morning. When they made it to the warehouse where the _Lifeboat_  was stored, the sun was coming up. Lucy was so tired. She was three days without sleep and running on empty. But it was not yet the time to rest.

Ethan was more surprised by their reception than Wyatt and Rufus were to see Flynn. It was a hostile arrival. Wyatt pulled his gun as soon as he saw Flynn get out of the car. Lucy stood between them with her back right up against Flynn, leaving no separated space between them, no opening for a shot.

“Lucy!” Wyatt exclaimed.

“It’s okay,” she promised. “He’s not here to hurt anyone.”

“He had Al Capone _shoot me!_ ” Rufus yelled.

“He kidnapped you again,” Wyatt stated.

“I went with him,” Lucy said, proving freewill. “I asked him to take me. And when I asked him not to kill all of Rittenhouse, he listened. He didn’t do it. Please, it’s all right.”

“We don’t have time for this,” Rufus said. “We gotta get Jiya back home. She’s in the _Lifeboat_. Something happened to her.”

“What?” Lucy questioned. “What are you talking about?”

“Probably has to do with carrying too many people,” Wyatt said. They obviously spent the night talking about it, worrying about it.

“We gotta get her back,” Rufus insisted. He did not care about the showdown going on. “Now.” He looked between Wyatt and Lucy, urging them to drop it.

Begrudgingly, Wyatt put away his gun. He kept a heavy glare on Flynn. It was a safe enough assault that Lucy could step away. She went forward and explained time travel to Ethan. He met them with understandable disbelief.

Not needing more added onto the overwhelming moment, Lucy was grateful Flynn did not make a spectacle of them in front of the team. He kept a professional distance and did nothing so obscene as kiss her or lean in too close, whisper in her ear. He was an exhibitionist in front of Ethan. With Wyatt and Rufus, he knew better. He knew what could hurt them. He knew who could change Lucy’s mind, talk sense into her. So he stayed away. He acted decently civil towards Wyatt and Rufus. He spoke when spoken to, and he did not approach until the _Lifeboat_  was gone.

Ethan believed in time travel.

When Lucy told him she was his granddaughter, his immediate response was to remark on how she looked like his mother, her great-grandmother. Following that, while still processing, his eyes drifted to Flynn with obvious thoughts. He saw them together on the road. He could not have missed it. What he ignored before with strangers carried a different weight once Lucy was related to him. If he felt a familial, gentlemanly obligation to object, he subdued it and said nothing, unsure of his place in her life.

Lucy kept them focused on what really mattered. She told him her plan, the plan to stop Rittenhouse, the plan that depended on him. Lucy made the decision— for them— to trust Ethan. Flynn trusted her. Together, they convinced him.

“You know how Rittenhouse operates,” Flynn said. “You know the consequences. You know how they make examples of failures, deserters, traitors.” Flynn knew more about Rittenhouse than Lucy. Ethan knew more than Flynn. “I want you to understand...” He came closer to Ethan, penetrating his personal space. “Understand that I am... I’m learning... their cruelty. Understand what they’ve done to me.” He inhaled deeply. “My daughter was five,” he stated. “Your son is two. But I think we can both agree, Ethan, that tragedy is _not_  a numbers game.” Lucy did not think Flynn could kill a child. She had watched him struggle with it before. But there was also no telling what he would do when pushed to the brink. “Do you understand that, Ethan?” Flynn encroached even further upon the man. He dipped his head and stared into his eyes. “Do you understand?”

Ethan nodded but could not form words. He was terrified. Lucy intervened.

“Stop,” she said. “Please, just- just stop.” She pushed on Flynn’s arm until he allowed himself to be moved out of the way. She stood in front of her grandfather. “Ethan,” she said, “we don’t want to threaten you. We know you hate Rittenhouse, and we _know_  you want to see them taken down just as bad as us. We can do that, but we need your help.”

“Yes,” he said. “Yeah, I’ll try.” They could depend on him. He would work within his capabilities.

Flynn walked to the driver’s side of the car but only to climb into the backseat once more. “You can drive,” he said, giving Ethan permission like he had final say. “Lucy?” His request was clear. Lucy got in the back with him.

As they drove, Lucy went over the finest details of her plan. Flynn was quiet, but she knew if he had anything to add, he would. He was satisfied with her explanation. He held her hand and rubbed his thumb across the back of it in a gentle caress. When her words ran out of momentum and the car went silent, Flynn moved his arm behind Lucy’s shoulders. His hand curled closed and he stroked her right cheek with the backs of his fingers. It was a very tender, sweet touch. It was very visible in the rearview mirror.

“You guys are, uh,” Ethan cleared his throat, “you’re married?” Flynn wore a ring, but if Lucy had a matching one, her glove covered it. He assumed. “You know, in the... future?”

“We’re...” Lucy sighed. There was no good explanation for it, not even by the looser standards of the 21st century. “We’ve known each other a few months now.” It was the best she could offer.

“I assure you, sir,” Flynn said, a noble statement almost undone by his smirking lips, “I have only the, uh, best intentions with your granddaughter.”

They kept his secret and did not judge. Ethan was obligated to return the favor. “Okay,” he said, “all right.”

Lucy knew Flynn wanted to kiss her again and make some sort of point. He forewent the uncomfortable display. Ethan knew about them— Ethan, and no one else. He was the only person they could carry on around. That Flynn did not take advantage of it told Lucy they were done for now. They would be done until they were alone again, and there was no telling how long that would be. They were mature enough to keep themselves off each other. But Flynn did keep a hand on her at all times, touching Lucy, taking advantage of the privilege.

“You’re tired.” He could tell.

Lucy did not bother lying. “Yeah,” she murmured. They would be done soon.

Flynn pulled on her shoulder, drawing her in until she rested against his side and laid her head on him. Lucy closed her eyes and dozed but did not sleep. She listened to Flynn give the occasional direction that led Ethan to the _Mothership_. It was a short drive.

Unintentionally, Lucy thought of when she was a child and pretended to be asleep in the car so her father would carry her to the house. That did not happen now, of course. Flynn patted her on the arm. “We’re here.” He let Lucy rouse herself and sit up before he moved.

They said goodbye to Ethan and let him return to his family after being gone all night. He insisted on staying to watch another time machine take off. It was an understandable fascination.

Flynn ignored all questions and comments from Emma. They left. When they jumped to Flynn’s hideout and disembarked, he stared at Emma until she took the hint and walked away. With such a demand for privacy, Lucy assumed he had something important to say or do. Flynn made no actions to verify that.

“Wish me luck,” Lucy said, starting the farewell conversation herself before she left to meet with her grandfather for his first time in sixty years.

“No,” Flynn refused, “I have... too much depending on this to rely on luck.” He had difficulty relying on anything other than his own two hands. “But I’ll count on you.” He tried to smile, but he was too anxious over the whole situation to keep it going. “You always find a way, Lucy. I’m putting my trust in your, uh, proven... effectiveness.”

Lucy felt every ounce of the burden Flynn gave her to come through for him. “I won’t let you down,” she promised. He nodded and said nothing. He waited for Lucy to do something. He waited for her to kiss him again— instead of the other way around. Flynn wanted a voluntary goodbye kiss. Lucy swallowed. She looked around the wide, open warehouse. Emma was nowhere in sight. They were alone. “Can you, umm... Can you lean down for a girl?” she asked with a nervous chuckle. Flynn smiled and obliged.

He no longer cared if he messed up her hair.

The goodbye after that was slower and less awkward. A possibility hung in the air, something to come back to besides business. Lucy found she liked it that way.

When she got to the city, Lucy called Wyatt’s phone. Rufus had taken Jiya to a hospital, risking detection for her when he would not even do it for his own gunshot wound. Lucy asked for company when she went to visit her grandfather.

Ethan was different, of course, very different after so many years, but he was the same around the eyes. He looked at Lucy, then Wyatt. “Where’s Flynn?”

“On the lam,” Wyatt answered before Lucy could, “like always.” He did not miss Ethan’s reaction. “But I’m guessing he probably forgot to mention he’s a terrorist.”

Ethan recovered quickly. “I know who Garcia Flynn is,” he said. “All of Rittenhouse does.” He looked at Lucy and confirmed for her, “I know he didn’t kill his wife and daughter.”

“I know.” Lucy lost her doubt long ago.

“I know who did,” he said.

Ethan gave them everything they needed to take down Rittenhouse. He recorded every name in the party responsible for the attack on Flynn’s family. Lucy was so grateful to him. She was glad to have the information for which Flynn depended on her.

Flynn was nervous when they met again, though Lucy felt a stranger would not pick up on it. She saw. She gave him the flash drive she promised. Flynn stared at it a moment then tucked it away in his pocket.

“I think maybe I’m owed the truth now,” he said. He did not need anything else from Lucy. She did not need anything from him. They could speak freely and jeopardize nothing. “Was any of it how you really felt?” A day apart gave him ample hours within which to second-guess and overanalyze everything.

Reluctantly, painfully, Lucy confessed, “It wasn’t.” She played along with Flynn, hoping to win his cooperation. It worked. “But then it was.” She fell prey to her own plot. Kissing Flynn opened two doors of opportunity. One was a strategy. The other was something else, something much more traditional. That thought concerned Lucy. It had since the moment she realized she enjoyed it, enjoyed him.

“Thank you,” Flynn expressed, “for telling... me... the truth.” Lucy knew it meant a lot to him. She wanted him to trust her. “I’ll be gone a few days,” he said. He planned on being thorough. One last trip and he would be done— forever. “When I get back, I might...” Flynn dropped his gaze down, down onto the concrete. “I might, uh, ask... you.. on a date.” He smiled at the ground. “Maybe do things the right way, get to... know each other... the right way, not in a journal or a, uh, classified file.”

He made himself so vulnerable and exposed. Lucy wanted nothing more than to take pity and say yes. She had to be more responsible than that, for both their sakes. “I think maybe,” she said, “you need to come back first, see your family, see what you...” She inhaled and blew it out in a tired sigh. “See what you still feel for your wife.” Again, Lucy felt jealous. Flynn picked up his head, ready to object. “Ask me again, Flynn,” Lucy interrupted, and she meant it. “Ask me again when you get back.” She would trust his proposal then.

“All right.” It was a mature, rational concession. Flynn read between the lines of her denial. All that was pending was the question, not the answer, and he had no worries on his end. How could he not smile over that?

Unfortunately, by the end of the next minute, Flynn would never trust Lucy again.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New record for longest prompt! Which means I really started phoning it in at the end there. lol. Probably very obvious.
> 
> I think that first kiss is one of the more mature things I’ve ever written. Haha. But let’s be real. There is a dam of chemistry between Flynn and Lucy, and one day it is going to burst.  
> The longer they wait, the more explosive it will be.
> 
> This took me awhile to write because, obviously, I reference the episode a lot. So most of it I could only write while in front of the television. Again though I hate ripping dialogue for my fics. It’s so boooooring. Though I guess I’m also assuming everyone else has watched the episodes as many times as I have and is equally familiar with that dialogue.


	15. Arrest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: "...if you get the urge to write a follow up to your most recent fic with Flynn living with Lucy under house arrest, I won't say no."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to chapter 4. Make sure you’ve read it.
> 
> Since this is a slight AU to season two, I tried to finish writing it before the premiere, but... I got very busy all of a sudden. Still a good read though, I suppose. I had fun. Bring on the semi-domesticity!

The technician closed the electrical box and locked it so his settings could not be altered. “You can access the whole house and most of the yard,” he explained. “I probably wouldn’t go to the sidewalk for the morning paper.” Flynn stood there beside Lucy, listening to the rules which tethered him to a little black box. “You can roam around this house, Mason Industries, and the approved route between the two.” He handed Lucy a map with the directions she and Flynn were meant to drive whenever they were needed for duty.

“Is that it?” Flynn questioned. He was unamused by the entire charade.  
  
“You’re waterproof but tamper-resistant.” The man pointed at Flynn’s ankle and the monitor beneath his pants leg. “Try to mess with it and we get a little beep. I dunno how many strikes you get before they throw you back in jail, but I wouldn’t risk it.”  
  
“Thank you,” Flynn insincerely stated.  
  
“Uh,” Lucy asked on his behalf, wanting to clear up any rules, “and what happens if he does go too far from the house? You know, when he’s not... needed?”  
  
“The ankle bracelet will start beeping,” the man explained. “When that happens, you have fifteen seconds to get back inside the perimeter.”  
  
Flynn could do a lot of damage in fifteen seconds. Luckily, none of it was near Lucy’s house.  
  
“If that’s everything...” Flynn gestured with his hand, ushering the technician out— outside of Lucy’s house, outside of the house the two of them shared.  
  
It was Flynn’s house now.  
  
The man pulled out a booklet detailing any further technicalities. Flynn’s irritation was noted and avoided. He gave it to Lucy. She was the man’s keeper, after all, his warden. Surely that was how everyone saw it from the outside looking in. “That’s everything.”  
  
“Thank you,” Lucy replied. She saw him to the door. “Have a nice night.”  
  
“Good night,” he returned.  
  
Lucy would not have a good night. In an absolute best-case scenario, her first night locked in with Flynn would be awkward as hell.

Her hand trailed down the door. She stood there staring at it, buying time from her new roommate. And yet she still did not consider her choice a mistake. It was better than letting Flynn sit in a cell at an unnamed dark site. It was better than letting them put him back every time they did not need him, only to drag him out every time they did. It was better.  
  
Taking a deep breath for courage, Lucy returned to the den area.  
  
Flynn walked the room. His situational awareness was keen, and he took in everything: books, photographs, furniture, decorations, wall color, and molding. Nothing escaped his notice.  
  
“Nice house,” he remarked. It was the first chance to comment on his new dwelling, a place much nicer than an abandoned church or an empty warehouse or a prison cell. Flynn gave polite small talk. After chasing Emma and Rittenhouse without success and coming home to an anklet and a waiting agent of the Department of Homeland Security, he and Lucy had not spoken a nonessential word to each other in days.  
  
“I always thought it was my mother’s notoriety, her books, her... work that paid for this house,” Lucy muttered.  
  
“And now?”  
  
“Now I wonder how much came from Rittenhouse.” She shook her head to clear depressive thoughts. “In spite of... all that,” she encouraged, “feel free to make yourself comfortable. Make yourself—” she gave a nervous laugh— “at home, I guess.”  
  
Flynn nodded his head one quick time. “I will, yes.” At his feet was one duffel bag of clothes and small personal effects, everything he owned in the world. He had no gun, no weapon of any kind. The terrorist came with humble belongings. He surrendered to the terms of his domestic incarceration, and he did not let Lucy forget his compliance. “You know I could get out of this and disappear in five minutes.”  
  
Lucy did not doubt it. He would steal her car and snap his anklet before leaving the perimeter. He would speed miles away before ditching the car and stealing another, repeating the process until he was untraceable. Flynn could disappear so easily.  
  
“I know,” Lucy said, “but I think they’re hoping you won’t... as a... sign of good faith.” It was a condition, the terms of surrender, the price to be paid for what he wanted. Flynn was capable in most everything, but he could not pilot a time machine. He needed them. “I meant what I said in the interview room,” Lucy told him. “What I didn’t say,” she corrected. “Your family, we’ll get—”  
  
“Shh!” Flynn put a finger to his lips, demanding quiet. Lucy would have been offended if his expression were not so serious. He pointed at his ear, and it took her a moment to comprehend.  
  
“No,” she said, “they did not... _bug_  my house.” He rolled his eyes and left the room. “Flynn?”  
  
Drawers opened and slammed shut in the kitchen. When Flynn returned seconds later, there was a knife in his hand. Lucy backed away in fear, but Flynn was too preoccupied to notice. He walked past her and picked up the phone in the hall. He stuck the knife’s tip into the seam of the receiver and pried the pieces apart. Lucy stepped closer to take a look as Flynn poked at a small chip spliced into the telephone’s wiring.  
  
“What is that?” she questioned. Flynn put the disassembled phone to his ear and dialed a number. “Who are you calling?” Lucy’s pocket rang and vibrated. She took it out and saw her home phone displayed on the ID. She sighed and answered. “Hello,” she said, playing along, but Flynn did not speak to her.  
  
“Do you think I won’t find them all?” he asked of the agents listening in on the call. Flynn hung up the phone he did not bother fixing yet. He took the memo pad from the table and wrote down a series of letters and numbers. “Tell Rufus to get me this,” he requested, and he gave the paper to Lucy. “It’s a model number, one of the better ones for detecting wireless receivers.”  
  
Lucy felt her privacy grossly invaded. It was tempting to wrap her jacket closer around herself and hide. She would bring the matter up with Agent Christopher. Even when Flynn was the target of surveillance, it was unsettling to be collateral damage.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Lucy said, giving the deserved apology. “Sometimes I forget that—”  
  
“I was with the NSA?” he questioned. “That I used to plant these as part of my job? That the branch’s entire damn purpose is to eavesdrop?”  
  
“No,” she told him, “I forget that your... paranoia is justified... sometimes.”  
  
Flynn exhaled a huff through his nose. It was the greatest demonstration of a temper he kept checked. “Most... times,” he insisted. “Try not to say anything incriminating until I address it.”  
  
“Right.” It was a good reason to avoid in-depth conversations or plans. It was an excuse to talk only on the surface, at least until they were more comfortable together. Lucy tried that. She tried to be a good host. “Uh, uh, if you’re hungry, I can— Well, I can’t cook,” she said, interrupting herself. “But we do have some good restaurants,” that he could not travel to. “I could pick something up, bring it back.”

“I’m not hungry,” Flynn dismissed, though he had to be starving. There had not been time to stop for a decent meal all day, but maybe he was more accustomed to eating and sleeping whenever he could. “Just let me know where I’ll be staying.” Flynn grabbed his duffel from the floor. He wanted to drop his belongings in a temporary room and rest.  
  
“Upstairs?” Lucy guessed. It was one more thing she had not thought through, and she had certainly not been home to fix up a bed for him.  
  
That was all the direction Flynn needed. He left her without a word and went up the stairs. By the time he was at the top, Lucy finished the math in her head.  
  
“Wait!” She followed him up. After peeking through doors, Flynn stood inside his best guess with the lights on. “No, no, no,” Lucy objected. “You can’t sleep in here.”  
  
He sighed. “Why not?” It was an ordinary guest room, cozy but impersonal, made for the very occasion they found themselves in.  
  
“This isn’t just...” Lucy glanced around at the walls and decor so different from what she knew. “This is my sister’s… This is  _Amy’s room_ , and eventually she’s going to need it back, so just- just don’t—”  
  
“Okay,” Flynn cut her off. She did not have to explain it. He understood. “I’ll go across the hall.” He grabbed his bag off the bed.  
  
“No, that’s...” That room belonged to her mother.  
  
“It’s a three-bedroom house, Lucy!” There was a fourth room, but it was a converted office with no bed, unusable. Flynn gave understanding over her hang-ups, but his patience was unstable. He was tired.  
  
“Okay,” Lucy permitted. She pointed down the hall. “Use that one.” Her mother was not coming back any time soon, but hopefully Amy would. “It’s yours.”  
  
Flynn nodded his head and walked past her, out of Amy’s room. Lucy closed the door, shutting away the emptiness.  
  
“Good night.”  
  
Her words stopped Flynn and he stood motionless in the hall, his back to her.  
  
They were roommates now. They were living together. Brushing each other off and giving the barest interactions was not a sustainable course. They needed to be civil.  
  
“Yes,” he replied, “good night, Lucy.”  
  
“If you need anything,” she offered, “anything at all—”  
  
“I won’t.” All Lucy could provide were creature comforts, and the basic amenities he already had were more than enough to satisfy. It was more than he had access to in a long time. Flynn needed nothing from his host.

Without another word, he shut himself up in her mother’s room, his room. The thick door forced feelings of isolation, as if they remained on different sides despite their truce, despite living under the same roof.

Lucy was not ready for bed, but she was exhausted. She needed to sleep. Even if her mind could not stop, rest would do her well.  
  
She went to her own room and took out an old t-shirt and pair of flannel pants. They were comfortable sleep clothes that would embarrass her if she ran into Flynn in the middle of the night. Lucy hesitated before swapping them out for a matching pair of pajamas.  
  
As she sat in bed and before she turned off her lamp, Lucy glanced at the unlocked door. It was silly to take precautions against a man who meant her no harm. It was paranoia, furthered by stories of Flynn and by his occasional bursts of anger, not by who he actually was. She was in no danger.

Lucy got out of bed and locked the door. She unlocked it. Flynn would get in if he wanted. She locked it. If something happened in the night and he needed her quickly, he might be offended by the precaution. She unlocked it.  
  
Lucy climbed back into bed and pulled the blankets over herself. She watched the ceiling for ten minutes and the insides of her eyelids for twenty.  
  
She locked the door.  
  
There was no alarm set for the morning and no one called her for her services. Lucy slept until she woke, until the sun lit her room. She was still tired from insufficient sleep and wanted to stay in bed. The thought of her unsupervised guest was the only thing that got her up and dressed. She did not put on makeup though, knowing Flynn would not care one way or the other. Besides, was she supposed to look attractive for him or something? No, and the thought made her laugh. It was a nervous laugh.  
  
Every door upstairs was shut, and Lucy tiptoed through her own house, wondering where she would find the man or if he were still in bed. She peeked down the stairs and around corners until she saw him. Flynn was reclined into the leather chair in the den, looking perfectly comfortable and shamelessly at home.  
  
“You’re awake,” Lucy remarked.

“Few hours now,” he said. “I made coffee.” Flynn adapted quickly to the house. He conformed to his environment like camouflage, as if he were a reptile changing its skin color, blending at once, fitting right in. Lucy supposed when a man moved around as much as him, it was unwise to waste time in the transition period.  
  
“Thanks.” Lucy needed coffee. She grabbed the carafe. “And it’s cold,” she complained.  
  
“Did I mention I’ve been up a few hours now?” he reiterated.  
  
Lucy did not care enough to make a fresh pot. She stuck a large mug in the microwave.

They managed to skip the awkward, “Good mornings,” and yet Lucy could not keep her foot out of her mouth. “So, uh... how much sleep did you get?” When she managed no more than six hours, Flynn was surely running on half that.  
  
“Enough.” There was a book in his lap with a piece of paper stuck a quarter of the way through its pages. “You don’t have to ask,” he permitted. Flynn released her from the obligations of etiquette. He did not ask her in return. After all, it was an unimportant question. They got out of bed when they could sleep no longer. What difference did duration make? It was only polite conversation. “Don’t you need to call Wyatt and Rufus?” he said instead, a casual and offhanded comment. Against Lucy’s perplexed expression, he clarified, “Let them know I didn’t murder you in your sleep maybe?”

Lucy laughed loud and awkward, and Flynn did not buy the cheap act. Of course he guessed she was supposed to check in. “I’m not—”  
  
“Just call,” he commanded. It did not hurt his feelings. He expected the precaution. Lucy had nothing to fear from him, but outsiders to their dysfunction could never understand that.  
  
The microwave beeped. Lucy sipped her coffee on the patio while she made a phone call.  
  
“Rufus said he’s stopping by sometime today,” she later told Flynn, “to bring your... gizmo.” He nodded. “So if you hear someone at the door, it’s probably him.”  
  
“You’re going somewhere?” he inferred. She got to leave when he did not.  
  
“Uh, shower.” She pointed upstairs. She showered in the locker room at Mason Industries, but nothing compared to the relaxation of her own with all its proper soaps and shampoos.  
  
Flynn nodded and picked up his book. “I will keep an ear out for the door then.” He did not look up at her when he spoke again. “You know,” he said, “I’m surprised you managed to keep Wyatt from sleeping here on the couch— or out in the hall.”  
  
Lucy did not affirm that it surprised her as well. It took very much convincing, but in the end, Wyatt respected her choice, her choice to live with a charged terrorist.  
  
She went upstairs and showered.  
  
It was a relaxing shower that dragged on and on and filled the room with steam. Lucy almost took a bath to prolong the sensation. After all, it seemed she could trust Flynn to roam free around her house. It was not as though he planned to set it on fire. A bath was tempting, and yet, in the end, she cut short the idea of leisure. They were on call with Agent Christopher.  
  
Lucy brushed through her wet hair and cracked the door open to release steam. She did not expect to hear voices. Flynn’s distinct accent came up the stairs.

“Miss Preston is, uh, indisposed... at the moment.” His crude implication was followed by a loud crunch into an apple.  
  
“All right,” a man replied. “And who the hell are you supposed to be?”  
  
Another bite followed. Flynn chewed it completely before swallowing. He drew out tense silence, and he took satisfaction from making the visitor wait on that important answer. “Who am I?” he pondered. It was a good question. “Seems to be changing a lot these days. But then I’m sure what you really mean to say is... who am I... to Lucy, yes?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
There was nothing innocent about the way he said, “A friend, I suppose.”  
  
“A friend.”  
  
“Mm-hmm.” The apple crunched. “Oh!” Flynn snapped his fingers. “You must want your ring back, is that it?”  
  
Oh, god, it was Noah. Noah was at the front door and Flynn was talking to him, trampling over the poor man’s feelings and making everything worse.  
  
“Flynn!” she yelled. Lucy grabbed her underwear and bra to slip hurriedly on. Downstairs, she heard Flynn continue to exacerbate the situation.  
  
“There’s my girl now.”  
  
Lucy huffed and grabbed her towel. She wrapped it around herself. Hopefully, there was no harm done from one man who already saw a version of her naked and another who insisted there be no secrets between them.  
  
“Flynn!” she chastised again as she ran down the stairs. “Leave him alone.”  
  
“Ah, there you are, dear,” he greeted. Bastard. “We have company.” He pointed at Noah.

“I can see that,” she said. Through clenched teeth, she muttered, “Go away, please. Go away now.”

Flynn did not leave, but he took a step back, giving Lucy space in which to dismiss Noah. She stood just inside the doorway, hidden from outside passersby. Thankfully, neither man mentioned or even seemed to notice her undress.

“Noah,” she softly said, “I know...” There was nothing to say, nothing but further rejections and without a single word of why.

“Lucy,” Noah said. He leaned in close and spoke quietly, as if it could avoid Flynn’s thoughtless audience. “I have been so understanding— of everything.” It was sadly true. He was so patient, so good. “I came to... I wanted to talk about what happened the other night, in that warehouse. I thought with a few days to think it over, you might...” He did not understand. He could never understand without the full explanation. And while without it, he wanted to believe a few days of contemplation would bring her around to her senses, her sense of self. “Have you talked about it with your mother?” It was no secret how much Lucy confided in her mother and sought her counsel. Those days were ended.

“My mother is...” The truthful answer would only lead to another question followed by another question. Lucy’s life was a loose string in a sweater; pull and she unraveled. “She’s out of town right now.”

Noah glanced at Flynn. He had contrary emotions for each of them. Lucy received pitiful, pleading desperation while the stranger got flashes of distrust and anger. “And this guy is supposed to be... what? Keeping you company while she’s away?” That was a fiancé’s job. They were no longer engaged. Noah was jealous, and he had every reason to be. Looking in without context painted Lucy with an ugly color.  
  
“I am _not_  dating him,” she assuaged.  
  
“Sure you are,” Flynn disagreed, sabotaging her case and for no reason. “No need to be embarrassed.”  
  
“He is a friend,” she maintained, though even that was a severe label. It was something they had never called themselves, and yet it was what they were— that or something stronger, though anything else was without a name. Their relationship and its peculiarities had no precedence.  
  
“A little more than friends,” Flynn said with a sly wink.

Noah slapped the man’s hand, making him drop his apple. It rolled down the steps and into the grass. Flynn watched it go. He huffed air through his nose.  
  
“Flynn, go inside,” Lucy begged. She did not want the situation to escalate. Both men were big and strong, but one was a doctor while the other was a former-terrorist with hand-to-hand combat and military training. Noah being physically hurt was the last thing she wanted. It was the last thing he needed after so much emotional pain. “Please, just...” Lucy could not tell with whom she was pleading. Flynn needed to go inside, and for his own good, Noah needed to leave.

“Lucy, this— all of this— this isn’t you,” Noah said. He begged for understanding.

“No,” Flynn agreed. “Probably because she’s not the woman you knew. She is not your fiancée. She’s not your anything. And I believe that’s what Lucy’s been _trying_  to tell you.” One implication that Flynn knew her better was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

“Okay, you know what?” Noah demanded.

“Oh, my god!” Lucy exclaimed. She did not see the punch to Flynn’s cheek coming, and that made two of them. Flynn reeled but recovered. He put a hand to his face as Noah flexed his fingers. “Flynn?” Lucy asked. “Please, if you could just- just ignore that and—”

He hit back! Noah stumbled down the stairs and into the yard. He stayed on his feet.

“No, no, no, no, no,” Lucy pleaded as Flynn marched down the steps. She could not hold him back. He slipped right through her fingers. “Flynn!”

“Where do you get off, huh,” Noah spat, “you son of a bitch?”

“You know,” Flynn laughed, “I’ve been through... a lot... in the past few weeks, and that is putting it _very mild_ , Noah.” Lucy did not like seeing him stretch the muscles in his arms. “But a fight, a hand-to-hand... brawl, over something so completely asinine as a woman’s hand, I think that might be exactly what I need.”

“Flynn, don’t you—” When Noah drew into a defensive stance like he knew what he was doing, Lucy became more concerned. For all she knew, the man practiced martial arts or boxing. “Noah, no.”

They both ignored her.

Noah threw the first punch, which Flynn dodged. The returned blow to his ribs was painful to watch. Noah got him back with another hit to the face.

“Stop it!” Lucy screamed from behind the doorframe, hiding herself from the view of any possible spectator. “Both of you, stop!”

Flynn punched him in the stomach, and when Noah doubled over, he drove his elbow down into his back, almost making him collapse. But Noah took advantage of his own hunched posture and lunged forward, grabbing Flynn around the middle. They both went down.  
  
“Flynn! Noah!” Lucy hesitated on the threshold of propriety before sprinting down the stairs in her bare feet.

The two men rolled over a row of bushes and exchanged several blows before staggering back to their feet.

“This is so stupid!” Lucy tried to reason, but they wanted nothing to do with the concept of logic. She was tempted to leave them to it, but her impression was that neither man would stop until one was in the hospital. “I don’t _want_  to be with either of you!” The proclamation solved nothing. She was no longer the point of the fight. They each had frustrations to spend, and blind hatred took her place.

When Flynn dove forward, Noah grabbed his arm and tossed the man. Flynn fell on his back and rolled, then Noah got above him. The fight continued on the ground, thrashing back and forth until soft beeping began. It sped up and grew louder with each passing second.

“Flynn,” Lucy shouted, “get your ankle inside the perimeter!” She did not need the Department of Homeland Security being witness to the lowbrow spectacle on her front lawn. “Flynn!” Lucy chased them across the yard. “Flynn! Your monitor!”

Her screaming got through well enough that Flynn pulled his foot into its boundary. The words puzzled Noah, however, and that one second of confusion was all it took.

Once Flynn got behind him, it was over. He wrapped his arm around the man’s throat and squeezed. Noah scratched and pulled. He gasped, unable to breathe.  
  
“Stop it!” Lucy yelled. She slapped Flynn on the shoulder and came dangerously close to losing her towel. “You’re choking him!”  
  
Flynn held on a few seconds longer before releasing Noah all at once. The man fell forward onto the grass, heaving and coughing.

Lucy went to his side, and Noah allowed her coddling for a moment. He pulled away once he could breathe again.

Flynn spat red onto the green grass. “Lucy doesn’t belong to you,” he said. “You don’t have to like her choice, but there are some things you can’t... some things you cannot change... no matter how hard you try.”

“Lucy,” Noah croaked as he climbed to his feet, “who the hell is this guy?”

“He’s on... house arrest,” Lucy told him. “He just... didn’t... have a house.” It was not enough information, but how could she possibly explain to Noah the reasons why she allowed a vagrant offender into her home? “I’m letting him stay with me for now. But this,” she gestured at Flynn, “it still has... nothing to do with you and me, Noah.”  
  
“Of course,” Flynn smeared blood dripping from his nose, “doesn’t exactly stop us from getting close either.” He put his arm around Lucy and she immediately shoved him away.  
  
Noah looked at her with heavy, soulful eyes. Unshed tears caught mid-morning sun. “Why?” It was such a meaningful question, fitting for a meaningful situation. There was so much left unexplained that Noah only needed that one word. Lucy owed him hundreds in return, rambling on and on in unending justification.  
  
“I wish...” Her instinct was to touch him, to comfort him, but he was a stranger. “I wish I could tell you. I wish... so hard that I could. But you don’t deserve to be dragged into this. You deserve better.” Noah was a stranger who tired of excuses.

“I thought I deserved you,” he said. “I thought...” The past did not matter. He thought differently now. Noah’s left eye was half-shut with what would turn into a swollen bruise. He covered it with his hand to ease the pain. “I won’t give you up like this,” he swore, “not like this, not without an explanation.” Lucy opened her mouth to counter, but he went on speaking. “But I will respect your decision.” He would leave her alone. “Let me know if it changes.”

Lucy could not convince him to move on, but as Noah sat by a phone that would not ring, perhaps he would decide his own closure. Lucy touched his arm and kissed his cheek. “I will.”

Nothing would change.

Noah left amicably. All he had left for Flynn was a glare.

Lucy went back into the house, and Flynn followed with contrition. He closed the door behind them.

“At the risk of sounding like a cliché,” he defended, “he did start it.”

Lucy walked away from him and into the downstairs bathroom. From the cabinet, she took out a first aid kit. Flynn had a cut on his brow that trickled down his face. Everything else would simply bruise.

“I got it,” he muttered, but Lucy pulled the box away from him.  
  
“You want to act like a child,” she said, “you get treated like one.” Belittling Flynn was its own punishment.

He exhaled loudly. If it were anyone else, he might have wrestled the kit from them. He might have made due with toilet paper and tape.

“All right,” he conceded.

Flynn sat obediently on a bar stool in the kitchen. It put them eye to eye.

Lucy ripped open an antiseptic wipe and held it on his cut. If it stung, Flynn internalized his reaction, trying to deny her the satisfaction or else wanting to look tough for her.

“Hold it.”

Flynn pressed his fingers over the pad while Lucy cut a strip of gauze. “I suppose,” he considered, “I could have handled that better. But then, uh, how much tolerance can a man _really_  have when some guy comes up to the door and introduces himself as your... ‘fiancé’ like it’s some sort of damn question.” Noah was not sure what to call himself. He had a better idea now. “I didn’t even know you were supposed to be engaged.”  
  
Lucy said not one word, and it did more than enough to convey her anger. She did not owe him the explanation.  
  
“It had to be done,” Flynn excused. He felt scolded and it was the closest attempt he would make at an apology. “You tried breaking it off with him already, didn’t you?” Lucy did not answer. “He’s not really one to take a hint.” She said nothing. “None of us can have a personal life,” he said, “not until all of this is over.”  
  
“And when will it be over?” Lucy demanded. The end was pushed further and further back at every turn, at every milestone or accomplishment.  
  
“Not soon enough.” Flynn would always have more on the line than her, than anyone. Lucy lost Amy, but it was not from violence and bullets in the night. It was a peaceful erasure. She tried to remember that fact.

“You didn’t have to break his heart like that,” Lucy stated.  
  
“You mean I didn’t have to give him such a negative opinion of you,” Flynn suggested. Her engagement to Noah ended in flames, and he would carry a scar from it the rest of his life. He would think of Lucy as unfaithful, even as he waited for her to take him back. He would have difficulty trusting ever again. “I... apologize,” Flynn managed, “for, uh... certain aspersions made.” He did not regret dragging her reputation through the mud with Noah. He did not regret that Lucy heard him. “He assumed, and so I... I made the choice to aggravate that suspicion.” Flynn regretted that it had to be done, that he had to imply Lucy was intimate with him. He misrepresented their relationship, degrading it until simple minds could comprehend and quick labels could apply. He would do it again. “Got rid of him.”

“What do you want?” Lucy pulled his hand away and pressed the gauze against his brow. “A thank you?”

“Maybe,” he said, “a part of it was selfish.” Flynn had his own motivations. “I do live here, you know.” He did not want to watch Lucy fumble through interactions with Noah while he was detained as a captive audience.

Lucy put the alcohol pad back on his cut for no reason. The surprise of it made Flynn hiss, a reaction he did not think to suppress.

“You done?” he scoffed.

She put the gauze over it again. “Hold.” He did. Lucy ripped strips of medical tape to hold it in place.

“I’m guessing your neighbors will probably frown on today’s excitement,” he uttered. The neighbors belonged to them both at the moment, but Flynn was far less likely to regard their opinion.

Lucy exhaled and shook her head. There was nothing to be done about it now. “Let them.” She spread the tape around him to keep the gauze in place. Their fingers touched. “I hate the HOA around here anyway. Wouldn’t let me have a... lemonade stand as a kid.” It was some ridiculous rule about slowing down through traffic. “By comparison,” she sighed, “trailer park theater was a little more distracting.”  
  
“A bit,” Flynn grinned.

Lucy placed the second piece of tape. “Unprofessional opinion?” she said. “You’ll live.”

“One less thing to worry about then.” He let his hand drop. There was bruising across his face, but it was covered by streaks of drying blood. Lucy wanted to wash him clean. “I got it from here,” Flynn said. “Go.” He nodded his head, gesturing at the stairs. “Go put on some clothes.” He tried to not look directly at her.  
  
“Oh, god.” It was only then that Lucy remembered she was half-naked with bare legs and shoulders, wearing only underwear hid by a towel. “Yeah, I’ll just...” She pulled the towel closer around herself and took a step back. “I didn’t... okay.”

When Lucy came back downstairs, Flynn was gone. After brief panic, she observed him through the window, repeatedly opening the back door and closing it, studying its movement.

“Okay.” She let him be and made herself a sandwich.

Rufus arrived at around three o’ clock in the afternoon. Unsurprisingly, Wyatt was behind him.

“Lucy,” Rufus cautiously greeted, “how’s it goin’?” He poked his head through the front door and looked back and forth but went no further, as if he expected Flynn would be standing there with a gun.

“Uh, good,” was the most positive way she could describe her day.

“Flynn’s not acting up any?” Wyatt questioned. He also looked into the house, searching for evidence of the man. “Hasn’t left the premises?” He waited to gauge Lucy’s answer, to analyze it for coercion. Wyatt would not be dissuaded against the notion of her in danger around Flynn.

There was a bang.  
  
“You want to save me?” Lucy said. Bang. “You can take the hammer _out_  of his hand.”  
  
Bang.  
  
Wyatt stepped into the house, misgivings forcing him to think Lucy was serious.  
  
Bang. Bang. Bang.  
  
“What the hell is he doing?” Rufus questioned. He walked in behind Wyatt.  
  
Lucy rubbed fingertips over her forehead. Somewhere in the house, a drill whirred. “I don’t even know anymore,” she uttered. “At first, he- he said the backdoor was uneven. So, I showed him the tools and...” She regretted having done that.  
  
Wyatt’s shoulders dropped, weighed down by something like disappointment. He sighed.  
  
“He’s...” Rufus spoke slowly to make certain he had it right. “He’s fixing your house?”  
  
“No!” Lucy exclaimed. “He’s tearing up my house so he can put it back together.” Flynn could not stay inactive long. He proved that. For the last few hours, he exaggerated symptoms of disrepair, pulling doors, cabinets, and molding apart before reassembling them. “ _Please_  tell me you brought that scanner he wanted.” A new job would distract him— she hoped.  
  
Rufus held up a bag with a small box indenting its shape into the bottom. “Got it right here.”  
  
“Thank you,” Lucy said with a sigh of relief. Until Flynn swept every room, she would not feel comfortable in her own home. He would make quick work of the task, especially if it meant he had something to do. “Oh, my god, is that a saw?” she demanded as Flynn passed through the kitchen with a circular saw. “Is that a saw? Tell me that’s not a saw.” Lucy did not even know they had one, and she was not excited to see what Flynn had planned for it.  
  
“Hey, Flynn!” Wyatt shouted, getting the man’s attention. Flynn circled back and stood at the end of the hall. He did not appreciate being called like a dog. Wyatt made a cutting motion across his throat. “Give it a rest already. Rufus’s got your doodad. Go mess with that instead of destroying Lucy’s house.”  
  
Flynn stalked down the hall. He held out his hand and Rufus quickly surrendered his order. The circular saw hung from his fingers like inconsequential weight as he used both hands to open the bag. “This is it, yes,” he confirmed. “I’ll get started.” It was a more important duty than imagined home repairs. Flynn turned away from them but swung back around before leaving. “Not destroying, by the way,” he added as he walked backwards. “Improving.”  
  
Lucy relaxed when he left. “Thank you,” she murmured. Hopefully, searching for hidden microphones would keep Flynn busy the rest of the afternoon. Constantly being told, “Don’t worry about it,” as he moved from one task to the next, one tool then another, was very worrisome.  
  
“You have everything under control?” Wyatt questioned.  
  
“Yes,” Lucy answered.  
  
“You do?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“And is that how Flynn got the shiner over his eye?” He gestured at his own.

Flynn removed the bandage once it stopped bleeding, but the mark was nasty to look at.  
  
“That’s...” Lucy did not wish to share the _mano a mano_  showdown from her chaotic morning. “It’s unrelated.” The circumstances had little to do with Flynn’s imprisonment or any retaliation against it.  
  
“Unrelated?” Wyatt laughed. “He’s been on house arrest. So, unless he tried to stiff the pizza boy on a tip—”  
  
“It’s unrelated,” Lucy repeated. Wyatt was on the lookout for anything to justify fighting Flynn or sending the man to a proper prison. Lucy could not give him that excuse. “We’re fine.”

Wyatt wanted to argue. He was stubborn across many subjects and especially when it came to Flynn. “All right.” He trusted Lucy to have her own situation under control. “Just try to remember you and Flynn, you are not a ‘we.’”

It was an important differentiation. He was right. Time and again, Lucy seemed to make the choices that would lead her to the journal, a future she thought she could avoid.

“Yeah.” She nodded her head. “Yeah, I’ll- I’ll try to remember.” Behind her, in the formal living room, Flynn waved a small black box around picture frames. “You probably don’t want to stay for a drink,” she assumed.

“Uh, no,” Rufus answered, “I’ve had enough of being recorded against my will. Good for a lifetime, thanks.”

“I’ll stay if you want,” Wyatt volunteered. It was difficult for him to accept that there was nothing to protect her from.

“That’s okay,” Lucy told him. “We— I... I’m all right.” She held the door as the boys shuffled outside. “I’ll let you know,” she said, “once the house is clean.”

“I’ll bring Chinese,” Rufus proposed.

“Yeah, enough for four,” Wyatt mocked. “We’ll just sit around, cutting up with Flynn and laughing like it’s not awkward at all.”

“Uh, five,” Rufus said. “Jiya.”

“And five with Jiya,” he amended. “Awesome. Can’t wait.” Despite his sarcasm, they knew Wyatt would show. He would, if for no other reason than to keep an eye on Flynn.

It went unspoken that such lighthearted plans could only exist so long as Emma did not take the _Mothership_  and activate their response.

“Bye.” Lucy waved and closed the door. Footsteps tapped behind her.

“That was fun,” Flynn muttered with a sarcastic grin.

“They can’t get used to it,” Lucy said.

“Yes, but not the me living here part,” he stated. The majority assumed their situation was born from her guilt over his arrest, and guilt was simple. “They don’t understand why you trust me.”

“That makes three of us,” Lucy murmured.

“Four.” Flynn included himself.

He went back to work.

The kitchen sink was plugged, and every time Flynn found a bug, he dropped it into a watery grave with the others. There were over two dozen so far, a large number to cover a large house. Most were hidden simply, stuck on room decor or the bottoms of drawers, but some were routed through wiring. Those took longer.  
  
Lucy tried to act busy while Flynn worked, but she kept hovering. It was an interesting job to watch. “You are... very effective,” she remarked, “at that.” Flynn did not respond to her compliment. He said often enough how skilled he was at his past duty. He did not care to repeat himself. Lucy watched him bent over on his hands and knees. She appreciated the tight blue jeans stretched over long legs. “I think you’ve almost covered the whole house.”  
  
Flynn pulled his sensor from under the sofa and stood. “Everywhere but your room,” he said. “I thought you might want to be present for that.”  
  
It was considerate, and Lucy was so distracted by the gesture that it took her a moment to realize, “Uh, _why_  do you think they would be in my bedroom?”  
  
“Because they were in the entire rest of the house,” he reasoned.  
  
“So you just... assume they think I’d invite you into my room for conversation?” Flynn acted with good judgment and appropriate caution. That did not stop Lucy from being offended.  
  
“I think,” he said, “they don’t... understand what sort of relationship it is you and I are supposed to have.” Lucy aided Flynn. She trusted him with her life. She met with him in secret. And after she was first kidnapped, Agent Christopher kept surveillance on Lucy’s house, unapologetically acknowledging that, even if one-sided, there was something between her and Flynn. There was something, and no one understood it.  
  
“I don’t...” Lucy rubbed her forehead with a tired hand. “I don’t understand it half the time.” People did not have relationships like the one she had with Flynn. It had certainly never been present in her life before him. Lucy did not know what they were. She had to admit that outsiders could decipher it even less. “Just... come on.” She led them upstairs.

Lucy sat on the bed, out of the way while he moved around her room. Flynn took care to put everything back exactly where he found it. He went over frames and light fixtures. He scanned her desk and closet. Three bugs came out.

“I, uh...” Flynn cleared his throat. “Come here, Lucy.” She got up and he put the scanner in her hand. “You hold this button,” he instructed, “and you move it around. Cover the entire area.”

“Okay?” Lucy did not understand the tutorial until he gestured at her underwear drawer. “Ah.”

Flynn leaned against the wall and looked straight ahead while Lucy moved the box around her drawer. He did not watch her but assumed she did the job right.

“And you don’t think they’ll plant new ones, new bugs,” Lucy questioned, “once, you know, we’re both out of the house?”

“It costs them a few thousand in expense every time,” Flynn said. “All it costs me is a few hours to undo it.” One side would give up eventually. Unfortunately for the Department, “I have a lot of time on my hands right now.”

“They want to know what we say to each other.” That was the situation as she interpreted it.  
  
Flynn hummed agreement. “I’m untrustworthy.” He stated the obvious. “And you, Lucy, you keep secrets from them.” She did, especially where he was concerned. She had since the beginning, since their first interaction. “After all, they never would have managed to capture me if they hadn’t suspected your, uh, dual loyalties, if they hadn’t followed you.” Flynn acknowledged for the first time that Lucy was innocent in his arrest. It was difficult for him to admit and let his resentment go, but he did.  
  
“You always,” Lucy said, “you always forgive me. You always let your... anger go, and you are always willing to start over, to start- start fresh, no wrath, no... You can never stay mad at me for long.” Flynn did not respond. Lucy forced his hand by making the subject a question. “Why?” She looked at him when he stared forward.

“You... are,” he hesitantly spoke, “an easy person to forgive... Lucy.” He did not look at her when he flashed a brief, forced smile. “Who could keep angry with you?”  
  
“Is that it?” she asked. “Or is because you still need me?” Until Rittenhouse was dead and his family was alive, Flynn needed everything Lucy could give him.  
  
“You are an easy person to need.” Avoiding eye contact made it all the more intense when Flynn finally did gaze at her. He had such soulful and expressive eyes that could hold every emotion at once. Sometimes Lucy saw too much from him, more than it was wise to give.

She turned away first.

“It’s clean.” She closed her chest of drawers.

Flynn pushed off the wall. “Well, they have some standards, I suppose.”

Lucy returned his scanner. “Some standards,” she muttered, pointing to the three recovered microphones in Flynn’s hand. Lucy wondered if Agent Christopher knew they were planted in her bedroom. She wondered if it were a direct order or a loose one to bug the entire house. She wondered what those listening expected to hear. Someone, whether at the head of the operation or near its bottom, did not trust her. “You really think they’ll... betray me?” she asked, earnestly asked. He knew more about betrayal than anyone.  
  
Flynn looked at the collected microphones in his hand and then at Lucy like she was a reckless idiot. He stepped into the hall and tossed the bugs down the stairs before closing the door on them to make certain.

“Yes,” he answered, “yes, I do.” He thought one thing yet hoped for another. “We’ll run,” he swore. “Before that happens, when it’s over, when they think you’re useless, we’ll run.” He meant every word.

“Together?”

Flynn’s hand twitched at his side, unsure of what to do, how to assure, where to touch. He put it on her arm and rubbed just beneath the shoulder. “Two years of experience have to count for something.” Flynn dropped off every governments’ radar. They did not even know when he entered the country and they failed every arrest after that, almost every one. He lived outside the law. He would keep her safe and out of prison.

“Why?” Lucy could not understand why he would risk it. She would only slow him down.

His fingers grazed the ends of her hair. “Why did you get me out of prison?” Neither of them wanted to answer. Flynn pulled his hand away and faked a casual air. “Who knows?” he said. “Might not even be necessary.” He had no faith in the justice department, not like Lucy, but he pretended for her sake. “But if so, well... You’ll still bring back your sister, I’ll save my family, even if we have to, uh, hold Rufus at gunpoint, yes?” He chuckled and walked out of the room.

“What?” Lucy replied. “No, we can’t... do that.” She could not tell if he was joking. “We cannot kidnap Rufus,” she emphasized.

Flynn tried to kill Rufus multiple times. Now that he was the only trustworthy pilot left, Flynn would not let anything happen to him. And he would use him at the end.

Every soaked and ruined microphone was put into a bag that Flynn told Lucy to take directly outside to the garbage can. He took no chances. Because of that, the whole place was clean. Lucy felt comfortable in her own home again.

“Get me this.” Flynn wasted no time giving Lucy a new task. He kept her almost as busy as he did himself. As she took another folded piece of paper, it seemed the ordinary aspect of his house arrest would be that Lucy had to run all his errands.  
  
“A ‘please’ wouldn’t kill you, you know,” she muttered. “This is...” She opened the note. “And it’s a... grocery list.”

“Yes,” Flynn said with a nod. He treated it as obvious and routine. “You’re certainly not going to cook. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to eat.”

“Wait.” Lucy surely read the implication wrong. “You’re going to cook for us?” She was surprised.

Flynn shrugged. “Staves off the boredom, doesn’t it?” He was bored with her house. He was tired of quick meals. “I have been living on _mostly_  pre-packaged military rations,” he told her, “few months now. What’s the point of having a whole damn kitchen—” he pointed at the immodestly designed space— “if you don’t use it?” Flynn refused to let the kitchen be a pointless room taken for granted. It was too long since he had the luxury of one.

“Yeah, okay,” Lucy quickly agreed. “I’ll just... go to the store, and then you’ll... cook.” It was weird. Only she thought so. “Call me if you think of anything else.” She grabbed her purse.

Lucy got everything on Flynn’s list, even though she had no idea what it was supposed to make. Chicken was involved.  
  
When she returned from the store, she found Flynn in the den, reclined in the chair with a book in his hands, the same one from that morning. It was such an uncharacteristic image of the man, something that could only happen when he had nothing better to keep him occupied. He was peaceful.

Lucy left him alone while she put away the groceries. When she disturbed him, it was because she could not quell curiosity any longer.

“What are you reading?” she asked. Flynn admired history, and the Preston collection was practically its own library. He could have any subject from any location at any time.

Flynn closed the book with his finger between the pages. He held it out for her to see. It did not look familiar and yet the cover had her name.

“Your book,” he said, “yours on the Lincoln assassination. Written and published by you but not _by you_.” Time travel was confusing. “I read the original, with all its, uh, focuses on Booth. It was much more detail-oriented.”

“There used to be more details,” Lucy replied. She came around and sat beside him on the adjoining sofa.  
  
Flynn sat forward. “It is... interesting,” he told her, “hearing you describe the... ‘unknown gunman’ and one Miss Juliet... Shakesman.” Lucy did not author the book in his hands, but the version of her who did had no idea she wrote about herself. She wrote about Flynn and his limited description. They were famous. They were anonymous. “And Booth, he went from being one of history’s most notorious assassins to a footnote.”  
  
“Yes,” she agreed.

“You resent what I did,” Flynn assumed, “shooting Lincoln.”

“I know why you did it.” She avoided confirming her sentiments over the event. Lucy wondered if the plot went differently in her journal, if that version of her failed to stop all four assassinations. She did not need to know.

From her purse, Lucy withdrew the journal. She offered it to Flynn. She returned it to him.

“I don’t think I should have this,” she admitted. It was harmless when Rittenhouse was defeated, when time travel was over. Now, she did not need to know her future. She did not need to affect it.

“You’re giving me this back?” Flynn looked the rough book over. Gentle hands caressed its worn cover and weathered pages.

“It’s yours,” Lucy said. “I gave it to you for a reason.” She still wanted to ask Flynn how that was possible, but again, it was better that she not know. Lucy needed to do these tasks for herself, in her own time.

“Yes,” Flynn agreed, “yes, I suppose she did.” He recognized that the Lucy he met was separate from the Lucy he knew. They were different people, and he was learning to accept the one he had.

He put the journal on the table beside him. He was more interested in her other book at the moment, a new one, one he had not memorized.

Lucy leaned back, trying to feel peaceful around the man. “So... you cook?” She had a hard time wrapping her head around that domestic image. She could barely picture Flynn eating at all.  
  
“Uh, no,” he said with a tilt of his head, “not particularly, not often. But recipes do tend to be fairly idiot-proof, I find.”

Lucy had conflicting findings.

Flynn excelled at most things. Cooking was one more productive chore to keep him occupied, just like everything else from that day. “Is it always like this,” he questioned, “the sitting around and the waiting?”

Lucy imagined it was different on the other side, to know what was going to happen, to know when, to fill time between missions with preparation. Flynn had not rested in a long while. Now that he was forced to, he did not like it.

“Uh, yeah,” she said, “kind of.” By now, Lucy was used to it, used to inaction, only reaction. “You’re, you know, bored?” A bored Flynn was an unwise thing to have. He would grow restless in time. He would advance his own agenda once more to expedite his goals.  
  
“Yes.” He answered simply before elaborating. “I’ve never been...” He tried to think of the word.  
  
“Lazy?” Lucy suggested.  
  
“Idle,” he stated, “before.”

“It’s not so bad sometimes.” Lucy cherished the rests between missions. She took advantage of them.

“I feel useless,” he denounced. Flynn could do nothing to further the plot. It frustrated him beyond measure. He could do nothing!

“So,” Lucy advised, trying to help, “be... useful. I got—” she pointed to the kitchen— “everything you asked for. Got it all.”

Flynn’s arms rested on his thighs. His hands dangled between his legs. He looked tired yet on edge. “Am I supposed to assume that you’re hungry?”

Lucy laughed and tilted her head to the side. “No, no, I’m fine.” She did not succeed in the lie and dropped it. “Yes.” She cleared her throat. “A little.”

Flynn nodded his head and stood. “All right.” He would make them dinner. “Here,” he gave Lucy her published book, “read this. Should be interesting.”

“Surreal,” she called it. Lucy could not imagine reading words she never wrote but could have written. Flynn was used to the disassociation after obsessing over the journal.

She opened the book wondering how detailed her own account of the assassination could be, how much more it said than a brief internet search.

At some point when unsupervised, Flynn found and commandeered Lucy’s digital tablet. He stared at it intently when planning his recipe, and he peeked at it often while going through each step. The impression he gave was of a vague familiarity with cooking. It was possible his current attempt exceeded past skill.

The smoke alarm went off only once, and after Lucy yelped in surprise, she tried not to snicker watching Flynn fan it with a dish towel. When he was not laughing at his own predicament, she did not want to be the one to start.

She went back to her book.

“Dinner,” Flynn announced twenty minutes later. Plates clattered against the wooden table. A cork popped, and wine glugged into two glasses.

Lucy stuck a piece of paper into the book. It trailed behind and nestled near Flynn’s own marker.

He did not try to be presumptuous and intimate by setting his plate at the head of the table and hers next to it, but then, eating with eight feet between them sounded unbearably awkward. Lucy did not mind sitting just around the corner. She smiled.

“Looks great.”

It was not the best meal Lucy ever had. The chicken was a little dry and a tad smoky. It teetered on having too much salt. It was not the worst meal Lucy ever had.  
  
“It’s really good,” she complimented, and it was only a pale white lie.

“I’ll get better with more practice,” Flynn assured her, sparing Lucy the obligation to coddle his feelings. He knew there was room for improvement.

Lucy shrugged. “Still better than anything I could pull off,” she said through an encouraging grin.

“Not your strong suit.” He never assumed it was. He never assumed Lucy knew how to cook simply because she was a woman. Flynn knew her strengths. He praised them. They were enough for him. They were enough without categorizing her down to gender stereotypes. He expected nothing so conventional from Lucy, only grandiosity.

“My mom used to cook,” she said. “My mom does cook— did cook.” Between sickness, wellness, and incarceration, she could not decide how to categorize her mother’s actions. “Amy,” she deflected, “picked it up watching her. She used to make us dinner once my mom got sick. The chef bug never bit me.” It almost sounded irresponsible to be an adult who could not cook for herself, but in the modern day, Lucy never went without, not so long as there was takeout and cereal.

“I’ll cook,” Flynn proposed. He did not mind the task. “Something to do.” He was bored. “Something to get better at.”

Lucy nodded, accepting the offer. “I guess it’s fair I clean.” There were dishes to put in the dishwasher and a few pans to scrub. Lucy felt she got off easy in comparison. As long as she brought home ingredients, he would cook meals for her. It was a spin on historical sexism, with Flynn being her stay at home wife.

Lucy choked on her wine at the sudden, unbidden thought.

“You good?” he asked. His hand was poised to pat her back.

“Yep.”

“You sure?”

Lucy coughed into her napkin and gave him a thumbs up.  
  
Flynn sipped at his own wine while she got herself under control. They resumed their meal in relative quiet.

“I think we can pull this off,” Lucy contemplated.  
  
Flynn’s fork stopped before entering his mouth. Green lettuce hung there. “What,” he questioned, “nightly dinner?” It was a simple aim, especially for them.

“Living together,” she clarified. That was less simple.  
  
Flynn ate his bite of salad. He chewed it longer than necessary. He swallowed and stared at his plate. “Yes,” he agreed. “I think so, yes.”

They lived together. For better or worse or a constant fluctuation between the two, they did.

“No dessert?” Lucy attempted to joke when they were finished eating.

“No.” He made no such thing as baked goods. “No, but,” he grinned, “you’ll probably just pull a chocolate from your, uh, secret stash, hm?”

“I...” Lucy stopped. “How do you... Nevermind.” She did not want to know. Either Flynn found it while snooping or she was boring enough to write about it in the journal. Either way, she did not want to know.

“You’re nothing like your mother,” Flynn said, and Lucy could not tell if it was meant to be a comfort. “Just a sweet tooth.”

Lucy exhaled a chuckle. “And history,” she said, “of course.”

“Of course.”

They sat in companionable silence, glancing at each other through crystal as they finished their drinks. When she was done, Lucy did not want to get up.

“I should...” If she did not do something, it would become obvious they did nothing. She did not know if they were at a stage to bravely abandon distractions, to be stimulated only by each other and without even a topic to discuss. “I’ll...” Lucy stood and took both their plates. She ran water in the sink.

Flynn could not do nothing while she worked. He came up behind her in the kitchen and reached around to place his wine glass in the sink. He grabbed a dish towel.  
  
Lucy washed and he dried. It was such automated simplicity that they cleaned everything, even the plates, forgoing the diswasher.

Too soon, they were out of another distraction. Flynn dried the skillet in his hands.

It was a still night in a quiet house.

“Sometimes I miss teaching,” Lucy said. She missed it often, but especially in that moment. “Always... papers to grade, lessons to prepare.” It was work to end the day with. It was a distraction from her mother’s illness. Now, she wanted it as an excuse to be in the same room as Flynn and not feel obligated to talk. “I’d have these... stories to tell too— to Amy,” she told him, “silly comments my students would say or these... ridiculous questions they’d ask.” She smiled. Flynn turned and leaned against the countertop, looking at her. “Like this one time...” Lucy stopped short, quickly realizing he would not care.

And yet he waited expectantly. “‘This one time...’” he prompted at the end of silence.

“Right, so...” If he were willing to listen, she would talk. They could converse like normal people. “Come here.” She led them back to the den. Flynn sat in the leather chair and Lucy perched on the couch corner beside him. “From one of my lectures on World War II,” she prefaced. “So, after the attack on Pearl Harbor, Roosevelt wanted to join the Allies and create the United Nations. He called on England for a meeting with Winston Churchill.”

“Yeah,” Flynn agreed, and it was refreshing to speak history to someone who already knew the facts, who had more than the most basic understanding. Flynn did not need much explained. Whether a lifelong interest or in service to his plans, he studied history and knew it.

“So,” Lucy said, “he invites him to the White House. And President Roosevelt enters Churchill’s bedroom, where he finds him—” she tilted her head back and forth with indecent implication— “ _completely_  naked from a bath. And without hesitating, Churchill declares, “‘The Prime Minister of Great Britain has nothing to hide from the President of the United States.’”

Flynn chuckled at the anecdote and hid behind his hand. When he pulled it away, he was still smiling.

“Couple days later,” Lucy continued, “I’m grading essay questions, and one of my students wrote...” She took a breath and exhaled through a grin. “‘In times of war during the early 20th century, it was traditional for delegates to appear nude before one another to demonstrate they had no secrets or hidden agendas.’”

Lucy still laughed thinking about it, just as she had when reading the answer in her office. Flynn found humor in the story, but in the end, he seemed more amused by her amusement. He smiled.

“Okay, okay, you can’t have that many stories,” he insisted. “Your students are teenagers or- or twenty-year-olds, yes? College students. And they all have this working knowledge to build off of.” They came to Lucy pre-programmed with years of history already instilled. She simply had to expand and inspire. Flynn grinned. “No, you try coming up with a reasonable answer for when a, uh, three-year-old little girl asks you why the damn grass is green.”

Lucy chuckled at Flynn’s humorous delivery before realizing that the overall subject was no laughing matter. It was not.

“I want to,” she said to him, speaking solemnly. “One day, I want to... answer questions like that.” Lucy wanted to get stuck in rounds of endless questions with a child. She wanted to teach them. She wanted them to learn a static history.

“You’ll be a good mother, Lucy,” Flynn said, “one day.” He sounded so certain.

“How can you know that?” she replied. He was being kind. There was no opportunity for such a pleasantry in her life as it was, and the impression of her future sounded worse, not better. There was no child documented in the journal. Flynn assumed.

“Because,” he answered so obviously, “you want to be one. And that is... all it will ever take to be good at it.”

It was a thoughtful sentiment he gave her, but Lucy did not keep it for herself very long. “Do you still want to be one,” she questioned, “a parent, a... father?”

Flynn did not welcome the inquiry. “That’s... _not_  why I said that.” He was not looking for reciprocated assurance.

“All right.” She did not pursue his insecurities. She did not force an answer. Instead, Lucy comforted the man. She reached across to him and held a hand he surrendered. It rested limp and malleable in her grasp. She rubbed her thumb across the back of it. “No pressure.” Flynn did not have to answer yet. He could still be a good father so long as he wanted to, by his own advice. He did not have to decide what he wanted until he could hold it again. “We’ll get them back.” There were no bugs to hear her, no agents who listened. Lucy’s promise was for Flynn’s ears alone. “I will help you do it. I promise.” By that point, her promises surely began to sound cheap to him. He did not discredit their worth.

“Thank you, Lucy.”

He did not take back his hand. Long fingers enclosed hers. Nothing more happened. Nothing more was needed. When simple human contact benefitted Lucy so greatly, she knew Flynn needed it more. The gesture was as innocent as it was intimate.

Lucy averted her eyes. “There’s a—” she coughed— “on T.V., coming on, there’s a... Bond movie, a new one. Well, new for us, right?” She tried to laugh. “Apparently, we made an impression on Ian Fleming in Germany. Wyatt and- and Rufus have seen it already. I hear it’s not bad.” Lucy rambled, and she knew she rambled. That did not mean she could stop herself. “You like those movies, right?” She tried to remember their mutual interaction with Ian Fleming.

“Seen most of them,” he confirmed, “the classics anyway.” He liked spy movies.

“So,” Lucy asked, “you wanna?”

“Well,” Flynn considered, “it’s not exactly like we can go out and see a movie, is it?” He raised his leg, drawing the cuff of his pants up over the ankle monitor.

Lucy sidestepped the notion of making it sound like a date. “I think what you’re implying,” she said, “is you want popcorn.” Flynn grinned and shrugged. “That I can make.” She dropped his hand. “Be right back.”

For her entire life, Lucy’s family never prioritized television. Non-fiction books reigned in its place. Growing up, their television set was not large and grand. It was not prominently on display. It was a small screen hidden inside a cabinet in a separate room. As she got older, and as televisions became more sleek, one was finally mounted above the fireplace in the den. Flynn turned it on while she stepped into the kitchen. He resituated and sat on the couch to see better.

When Lucy sat down, she put the bowl of popcorn on the center cushion to avoid any implications with seating arrangements. She and Flynn sat on either side with the entire couch between them.

“You know you can go out and see something,” Flynn commented. “Don’t have to watch old spy movies.”  
  
“I know.” Lucy was under no obligation to stay in her own house, especially now that she knew Flynn would not destroy the place or attempt to flee in her absence. She was free to leave. She chose not to. “I’ve never really... gone... out in my free time.” She rarely did. Now, she could not do so in good conscience. It was her suggestion which tethered Flynn to the house. She would keep him company. There were worse fates. After all, they made it through the day together. Lucy was unharmed. Flynn adhered to his arrest. The house was still standing, despite his midday attempts to repair it. One day sounded inconsequential, but it felt like a major success. They pulled it off. All they had to do was get through one movie.  
  
Flynn enjoyed it more than her. He did not cheer on the hero or comment much outside comparisons on the fictional Lucy, Wyatt, and Rufus. However, he did not teeter on sleep near the end either.

Lucy yawned. She ignored the impulse to doze until her blinks became longer and more lingering. “I think I’m... going to go to bed,” she announced. “Let me know how it ends.”

“All right,” Flynn replied. He gave her such little attention, Lucy almost thought he did not listen— until he added, “Good night, Lucy.”  
  
She smiled and moved a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah,” she said, “good night.”

“I’ll see you in the morning.” Flynn would still be there when she woke. He would be there through the day. He would be there when she went to bed. He would be there, with her, for the duration of any foreseeable future.  
  
Lucy was not alone, and neither was Flynn. When their respective worlds crumbled and they lost everyone important to them, they would still be there. They would be together.

“See you in the morning,” she echoed.

Because he would be there.

When Lucy went upstairs, she left her bedroom door unlocked. What was the worst to expect from him?

It was another six days before Emma took out the _Mothership_. Lucy’s phone rang at 4:13 in the morning.

“Yeah?” she murmured, brain half-asleep. “Yeah, I’m here. Okay. Yeah. We’ll be right in.”

Lucy hung up the phone and laid there a moment, giving herself the chance to wake more fully before she roused Flynn. She needed that one silent minute before starting an inevitably exhausting day.

“Work?” But he was already up and alert.

“Yeah.” Lucy rolled over on her back just in time to watch him get out of bed. The skin of his torso caught moonlight coming in around the curtains. “Uh, Emma took the _Mothership_.”

“So—” Flynn found his shirt in the floor— “get dressed. I’ll drive.” He needed the control or he wanted to speed. Less likely, the suggestion was so Lucy could sit in the passenger seat drinking coffee and waking herself.

Flynn exited into the hall, leaving for his own room and his own clothes. After days of sitting idle, he felt eager and energized to move forward again. Lucy was grateful for it despite having to act so early. Work gave them the chance to avoid the awkward morning-after talk, the talk meant to follow an arguable mistake. And when they returned home, there would likely be new listening devices installed. It would be a while before they could have their talk. Small favors, she supposed.

“I’m up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite taking several months, I was excited to write this one. But I also couldn’t think of any sort of aim for it. Then I was half-asleep in bed one night, and into my notes I wrote, “Noah?” followed by, “Flynn and Noah fight.” It still played the next morning, so I went with it. lol. Because let’s be real. If Noah got jealous and assumed there was something going on between Lucy and Wyatt just because he was attractive and stood next to her, imagine if he knocked on the door and a hot European man had made himself at home. Cue trailer park theater! God, once I thought about the two of them rolling in the grass fighting while Lucy stands there in a towel screaming at them, I couldn’t shake it. Pfft.
> 
> I had a lot of fun with this one. Indulging almost every little thing I would like to see from Flynn and Lucy living together. (Like the ending. Hon hon hon.) Maybe we’ll get some roommate interactions coming up in the bunker!


	16. Stupidity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: Lucy giggled. Flynn arched a brow. “What did you do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jumping the gun a bit here because Flynn doesn’t live in the bunker yet, and we don’t know what it will look like when he does. But I need some happiness right now!

The last thing Flynn wanted to see before bed was Lucy and the other girl walking out of Wyatt and Rufus’s room with silly grins on their faces, acting as if they had no cares. It was simple to imagine the four of them cutting up for hours. That was what Flynn first assumed. The way the women kept shushing each other against laughter, however, denoted conspiracy and secrecy of a comical nature. Lucy giggled, and the sound was less offensive. Flynn never heard her make a noise like it.

Their delight swiftly ended when they picked up their heads and saw him standing there. The lighthearted mood was dead. Flynn arched his brow. “What did you do?”

The other girl, Jiya, would not answer. She rarely interacted with him and did well keeping up her end of avoidance while Rufus threatened Flynn on the opposing side, as if the programmer’s threats meant anything. He kept away from her, however. He would until the day he needed something.

“It’s nothing,” Lucy stated. She attempted to walk past him.

“Should I,” he questioned, “ask Wyatt and Rufus about it then?” He got the impression he was not supposed to, and he utilized it.

Lucy sighed. “The guys were exhausted,” she told him, “so they drank a few beers, went to bed... passed out a little. We,” she gestured between the two of them, “thought it would be funny to... paint Rufus’s fingernails.” When Lucy pointed at Jiya, the girl held up a bottle of bright pink nail polish. Flynn wondered if they had done their own drinking to find that funny. “So,” Lucy inhaled, “if you’ll excuse us...” Jiya followed quickly behind her on the way back to their shared room.

“What,” Flynn said at their retreating backs, “you’re not going to do Wyatt’s?”

Lucy turned around. “Wyatt wouldn’t find it funny,” she said.

“No,” he agreed. “All the more reason to do it.”

“It doesn’t matter.” The fun was over now, crushed by Flynn’s sobering presence. They painted Rufus’s nails and he would have a laugh with them in the morning. That was good enough.

“All right,” Flynn said. “Give it here. I’ll do Wyatt’s.”

Lucy huffed out a laugh. “You know how to paint nails?”

Flynn held up his hands and wiggled his fingers. “Ten little fingers and ten little toes,” he said, “every time she got a new color.” He learned to paint on the very small nail beds of a little girl. Wyatt would be comparatively simple.

“I’ll... do it,” Lucy sighed. She took the nail polish from Jiya and walked back towards the boys’ bunk. As she passed Flynn, she muttered, “I don’t want to know what would happen if Wyatt woke up to... that.” A former enemy who tried to kill you on multiple occasions painting your fingernails pink was not a sight anyone wanted to come around to.

Flynn let her by.

Lucy opened the bedroom door slowly and left it ajar as she snuck inside. Flynn leaned against the opposite wall to watch. Jiya crept back over to see. She stood two feet away from him, a safe distance.

As Lucy rolled the polish in her hands and opened it, Flynn had to admit the prank was funny, and it was harmless so long as it could be properly removed before any trips to the past. Lucy began painting Wyatt’s fingernails. He would hate it when he woke up. The thought contented Flynn. He wanted to be there when it happened.

“She needed something,” Jiya murmured at his side, surprising him. The fact she talked at all said much on her determination to help Lucy— that or her inability to endure an awkward silence. “She’s been through a lot lately, and I thought a cheap laugh might... It’s stupid.”

Flynn watched Lucy and did not look at the girl beside him when he spoke. “Yes,” he agreed, “very stupid.” It was. “Good call.” Lucy needed it. “You’re her friend?” Flynn gauged her reaction for sincerity.

“Oh, I, uh...” Jiya fumbled over her label. “Yeah, I... I guess so, yeah.”

“No,” Flynn denied, “no guessing. You are, or you aren’t.” Jiya was a short girl and Flynn stood high above her. She was intimidated by him and his reputation, and he knew that. It did not make him withdraw that intensity. “Are you her friend?”

“Yes.” Jiya did not hesitate again. She answered to him like a subordinate, as if it were her duty and she reported success. “Yes, we’re friends.” Jiya abandoned her own uncertainty. “Are you... supposed to be? You and her, I mean, you know, friends?”

If she thought Flynn had the same ambivalent answer, she was wrong. He was aware of what he and Lucy were. “No,” he said, but that was not the end of it. “No, not yet.” He knew what they would be and he waited for them to be it.

Lucy finished the first hand and moved on to the other. Flynn suspected she would not wait around for a second coat.

“You care about her?” Jiya was a nosy woman, a nosy woman who lost her fear of him with each passing moment.

Flynn did not want to dignify the question with a response, but he knew the answer was obvious. Why bother lying? “Yes.” He cared for Lucy in ways which were unwise. “She’s all I have.” Everyone else left him or betrayed him. Flynn wanted to believe a journal that so often misled him. Lucy was the only person who mattered if she could help him with his goal. She was the only one who mattered when the world would rather watch him rot in a dark cell. “She sees me as a person,” he said. “Who wouldn’t value that in an ally?” Jiya opened her mouth to say something kind or introspective. Flynn did not want to hear it. He said too much to the girl already. “Go,” he instructed. “Go on to bed. I want to talk to Lucy alone.”

“I don’t think—”

“Go.” She was offended by his rudeness, which did not affect him in any way. He still had no need of her— no need but one. “Thank you,” he said before she left, “for being Lucy’s friend, for... doing something very stupid with her.”

“Yeah,” Jiya said. “Yeah, no problem.” She turned away but did not leave. Instead, she looked back over her shoulder. “Hey, uh, so... good night.”

“Yes.”

She left.

Lucy snuck back out of the boys’ room and silently shut the door. “He’s going to hate that,” she said once it was safe to talk.

“Yes,” Flynn said with a smirk. He could not wait to see the volatile reaction.

“Where’s Jiya?”

“Said she wanted to go ahead to bed.” When it seemed Lucy’s next objective was to join her, Flynn held her up. “So... let me get one thing straight,” he said. She waited for his interrogating question. “We have... beer?”

Lucy laughed. “Yeah,” she said. “Come on.” She took him to the kitchen area and bypassed the large refrigerator in favor of a small one hidden in a cabinet. “Technically, as Agent Christopher tells us, we’re all on active duty.” They were not supposed to be drinking, and the can of beer she handed him was contraband. Flynn wondered how they got it in. He popped the tab and did not care enough to question it.

The drink was bitter but refreshing. It was exactly what he needed. He sighed his contentment after a long swig. “Any other secrets I should know about while staying here?” Flynn was not kept in the loop, and no one cared to include him.

“Dunno,” Lucy said. She could not think of anything off the top of her head. “I’ll fill you in when it comes up.”

He nodded and drank his beer. For some reason, Lucy was in no hurry to leave his side and retreat to her bedroom. “I believe the, uh, weather’s supposed to be mostly clear tonight,” he told her. The computer he was not permitted to access said as much.

“Oh?” Weather was the most standard and cliché small talk, but Lucy pretended interest. “That’s nice.”

Flynn drained the rest of his beer and tossed the can into the trash. “Want to go out and see it,” he asked, “get some fresh air?”

Lucy looked at him with a puzzled, confused expression. “We can’t...” The door was locked. There were armed guards at the top.

“You think I didn’t find a way out of here?” Flynn gave her a conspiring grin. “Come on.” He nodded his head down the hall. “You want to do something stupid, we’ll do something stupid. No one will find out.” When he walked away, Lucy hesitated but followed.

Flynn brought her to one of the large fans welded into the wall. He grabbed a metal pipe from the corner and handed it to Lucy.

“Saw the ladder first day,” he said, and when he pointed past the sweeping fan blades, Lucy could make out the metal rungs climbing up. Flynn twisted the nuts holding on the metal grate, nuts he already loosened with a wrench. The entire wire cage came off when he pulled. “All you have to do is stop the fan and get past it.”

“How?” Lucy looked the panel over, but there was no switch to turn it off. They would have to cut power to the entire facility.

Flynn answered her with action. He stuck the metal pipe into the fan and wedged it firmly between metal bars and a corner. The fan blade hit the pipe and stopped, unable to move forward. “Like that.” He climbed between two stationary blades. Lucy did not follow. “Come on.” He held his hand out into the hall, beckoning her into the small alcove. “It’s safe,” he assured her. “Not going anywhere.” He pushed on a fan blade to prove it. “Won’t start back up on you.”

Lucy swallowed her apprehension and climbed through the hole. It was a frightening second, but she managed. The space was small behind the fan, no more than a four-foot square. Beside them, the rusty ladder climbed up into a ceiling of darkness. “It goes all the way out?” Lucy questioned.

“Yep.” From his pocket, Flynn took out a flashlight, small, but very bright. He pointed it at the ladder. “Feel free to go first.” If she fell, he would catch her.

“Uh... I...”

“Don’t think about it,” he said. “Just do it.”

“Just do it,” Lucy repeated. She reached out and grabbed the ladder. She began climbing up. Flynn gave her space before following.

Their shoes clanged on the metal rungs and reverberated through the shaft. That was the only noise for several minutes. When Lucy spoke, it was obviously a distraction from her nerves at being up so high. “Agent Christopher would kill us if she knew we were doing this.”

“Agent Christopher is not the boss of me,” Flynn replied. The agent thought she owned his cooperation, but it was only ever a rental. He would continue to do whatever he wanted; however, he would concede to only small rebellions.

“You should probably tell me not to look down,” Lucy suggested.

“Why?”

“So I don’t look down.”

“Well, obviously don’t look down,” he muttered. Flynn did not have a fear of heights, and even he knew better than to observe the distance to the ground and let it overwhelm him. “It’s a hundred-foot drop.”

Lucy yelped and held on tight to the ladder. “This is so stupid,” she exclaimed. She could not remember why she agreed to do it.

“You can’t stay there,” he pointed out. “Up or down, Lucy, but we’re almost at the top.”

“We are?”

Flynn pointed his flashlight up. They could see the ceiling. It gave Lucy courage to go on. She nodded her head and continued climbing.

When she reached the top, Lucy’s arm stretched up and felt the round hatch door above their heads. She groped at the large valve handle. “I can’t open this,” she said. She would have to let go of the ladder.

“I know.” Flynn never expected her to. “Don’t move.” The shaft narrowed at the top where she was, reducing itself down to a diameter of two-and-a-half feet. Flynn climbed up behind Lucy, trying to put his hands and feet where hers were not. He planted his shoes firmly on the rung beneath hers and slowly leaned back against the wall, letting it support him. “Hold this.” He passed her the flashlight. Lucy let go of the ladder long enough to take it and point it at the ceiling for him. They were pressed in close together, their bodies practically touching, and Flynn tried not to elbow her in the head every time he strained his arms to give the valve another turn. With a grunt, he flung open the hatch door. Fresh air immediately flooded the passage. It was pleasant. Flynn pushed himself off the wall and held onto the ladder again. “Go on,” he encouraged. Lucy climbed up through his arms and out into the night air. Flynn followed her out.

The hatch was hidden in an overgrown cluster of small shrubs, making them and the hidden ladder perhaps the only reason no one knew about it. Flynn pushed through the growth and out onto an open hill where they could see the main entrance to the compound some seventy feet away.

“Snuck out here the other night,” he told her. “Not trying to escape or anything. Just... needed to see the sky again, I suppose.” Flynn went from eight weeks in a windowless cell to a bunker underground with only a brief ride in between from a paneled van. He knew Lucy could not imagine the true depths of such confinement. Her claustrophobia would flare at the thought.

They could not go far on foot, but exploration was not the point. All he wanted, to have and to give, was a moment outside.

Flynn sat down on the grass and looked out at the roving mountains and plains of green inside them. Trees sprouted up at heights numerous and incalculable. Lucy sat next to him.

“You got out,” she said, stating the obvious.

“Yes.”

“And then you went back inside and acted like nothing happened.”

“Good to have an escape plan,” he said. It was a slow escape, but he took comfort in being the only one to know about a second exit— one of two now. “I do hope you won’t tell Agent Christopher on me.”

“You came back.”

“You thought I’d, what, run the first chance I got?” Flynn replied. “Run and never look back?” He could not. He needed them. “What am I supposed to be running to exactly?”

“Your freedom,” Lucy said. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“I wanted out of that damn cell.” He tried to not sound passive aggressive. “So I can finish what it is I have to do.” Their team was his greatest asset at the moment. “I’m not going anywhere.” His decision could change with any new wind and they both knew that. When their way of operating took too long for his standards or veered in the wrong direction, when he inevitably had to betray her, “I’ll try to end it on better terms than what you did to me.”

“You know I didn’t want you arrested.” Lucy grew tired of the argument.

“I know.” That did not mean he was finished antagonizing her about it. Flynn laid down and rested his head on the cool grass. “It really is a nice night. Nice night to do something stupid and reckless.”

The sky was clear with few clouds. Those that floated caught the light of a nearly full moon and glowed like blue lights of cotton. It was a beautiful moon. The stars behind it were out in full form.

“Yeah.” Lucy laid down beside him. “It is.”

“Benefits of living out in the middle of nowhere, huh?” There were no cities for miles and miles. There were no city lights. The unnatural world around them was pitch black and absent. Only the heavens shone.

“Yeah.”

“Wish I’d grabbed a few more beers.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Talking ruined the tranquility, so they did not talk. They did not have to talk, and it was nice to be with someone who recognized the act as needless and obligatory. Flynn liked being with Lucy. Together, in silence, under freedom, they watched shimmering clouds roll by. That was all.

Flynn knew he could have stayed out there all night. He could watch the sun rise with Lucy at his side. But they would be missed if gone that long. Their entrance might be witnessed. He wanted the exit ladder kept between them.

It was nearly three o’ clock when he finally looked at his watch.

“You ready to go in?” he asked. “Lucy?”

Flynn sat up and saw that she was fast asleep. What a poetic vision she was, peaceful amid a bed of grass and below the stars. He had never seen her look at peace.

He gave her five more minutes.

“Lucy.” He shook her arm. “Lucy.”

“I’m up,” she mumbled. “I’m up. Hmm.”

“Good.” Flynn stood. “Because I can’t carry you back down the ladder.” Lucy was too tired to delve further into the implication, to wonder if he would have carried her if they could take the elevator. Flynn did not know either. “You good?”

“Yeah.” She sat up and then stood. “Yeah, I’m good.” When she moved towards the escape hatch, Flynn put a hand up to stop her.

“Stop,” he cautioned. “Wait a minute. Go on and wake up a little more.” It was a long climb down for someone disoriented.

Lucy rolled her head in every direction and patted her cheeks with light slaps. She was awake. “Come on.”

Flynn grabbed her by the arm. “I’ll go first.” He would be beneath to catch her again, should she fall.

The descent went easier. It went quicker. Lucy was not as afraid to go down. When Flynn reached the bottom, he coached her the last few steps. Climbing through the fan a second time was no big concern. She trusted Flynn to not let it hurt her.

It was difficult to pull the pipe back out, and it made a loud, metallic scrape when Flynn did. He finger-tightened each of the nuts back into place, making the protective grate look like it was never touched.

Flynn placed a finger to his lips and whispered, “Shh.” It was their secret.

“That was nice,” Lucy said as they walked down the corridor. “It was... It was refreshing.” Jiya was correct when she said Lucy needed something extra, anything at all, anything to break the monotony.

“Yes.” Flynn walked with his arms behind his back until they stopped at her door. It was a short trip. “Good night, Lucy.”

The situation evoked the image of walking her home after a date. The impulse to give a kiss on the cheek was ignored. It was ignored by him. But when Lucy leaned forward, he instinctually bent down to make the action easier for her. She kissed him, lightly and platonically, on the cheek.

“Good night, Flynn.” She opened her bedroom door. “And thank you. Thank you for the... something stupid and reckless.”

Flynn waited until she was gone to smile. He rubbed his cheek.

He slept well that night but made certain to wake up in enough time to be outside Wyatt and Rufus’s door the next morning.

“What the hell?”

“Oh, come on!”

He watched them try to scrape it off while he drank his morning coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this in one day as a coping mechanism to get over the disappointment of 2.02. Forgive any mistakes. I’ll read back over it later.


	17. Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: Flynn being the feminist he is doesn’t think Lucy will/would need him much. Lucy tells him it’s okay (maybe begs him to [save her])? IDK lol

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s funny ‘cause it’s canon. lol.
> 
> I’m gonna keep writing a lot of these prompts in season 1’s dynamic because I wasn’t done with it yet, okay? Okay.

Lucy gave up on CPR seconds before the door burst open. Her hands were saturated in the sticky crimson that flowed from his stab wound. The letter opener— the weapon— laid next to the body she knelt beside, all of them in a puddle. That was the incriminating situation in which the police found her.  
  
“Don’t move!” There were four of them, led by a familiar face.  
  
Flynn sighed and lowered his gun. He was not pleased to reach into his back pocket and take out a pair of handcuffs. “Agent Flynn,” he said, faking an introduction on behalf of the men in the room, “FBI. And you... are under arrest for murder. Please stand up and turn around.”  
  
Lucy stood but refused the rest. “I didn’t do this, and you _know it_ ,” she hissed. He did it. They knew he did.  
  
A policeman checked the victim’s status in vain.  
  
“Then you should have no trouble proving your innocence,” Flynn replied. “Do you... have any identification on you?”  
  
Lucy glared at him. “No.”  
  
“You work here in the capital building?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“You know someone who does?” He took advantage of her transient existence in the past. “Someone who can vouch for your being here, in the governor’s office?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Certainly you must have a good reason, some... business to attend.”  
  
Lucy was there because she followed him in, but implicating a verified federal agent would make her look insane and even less credible. “I have my reason.”  
  
“Care to share it?” His smirk was insufferable. He knew she could not.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Then—” he held up the handcuffs— “please turn around.”  
  
Lucy could not resist amidst witnesses. “I was trying to save him. I’m a nurse.” She could establish her own lies.  
  
“A judge will decide your innocence.” Flynn twirled his finger, pressing her to follow its movement. Reluctantly, Lucy turned around and put her hands behind her back. “What hospital do you work at?” he questioned. He knew she did not have a name for one, certainly not one that would confirm her employment. Lucy did not answer. Flynn kept the cuffs loose for her— tight enough to hold, but comfortable enough not to chafe. “Come on,” he whispered in her ear.  
  
He led her outside and to a car. There was a driver up front, and Flynn helped Lucy climb into the back with her hands bound. Passersby gawked in terror at the bloodstains she wore.  
  
“You know this is wrong,” Lucy said as the car started up.

Flynn closed the door behind himself, and when he settled in beside her, his hat almost rubbed against the ceiling. “Maybe... you shouldn’t have put yourself in a position to be accused.”

It was all they said the entire ride to the police station.

Flynn helped her out of the car but left booking to a local cop, saying he had something to attend. His errands were rarely reputable.

“Go with him,” Lucy urged one of the officers. “Please someone _needs_  to go with him.”

They paid her, an arrested murderer, no mind. They took her falsified name and any pertinent information, and then they locked her in a cell, deep enough to be considered in the basement, high enough to have ceiling windows level with the street. The setting sun of afternoon shone through with bright orange light.

Lucy was left alone, left fretting over every implication of her arrest. Wyatt and Rufus were out there, looking for her no doubt, unable to find her. She had no way to contact them. The situation felt as hopeless as it was.

The bench on the wall was covered in a thin mattress. Lucy could map every supportive metal bar right through it. She took deep breaths and tried her hardest to avoid a panic attack.

Time was incalculable in her basement cell, but Lucy assumed a half-hour passed when she heard shoes clatter down the concrete steps.

The sun was gone outside her windows. Dim and sporadic bulbs lit the stone room. It was bright enough to see Flynn.

“You never can stay out of the way... can you, Lucy?”

The hands on his hips made him look authoritative. The exasperation on his face contributed to the lifelong irritation of their acquaintance. The feeling was mutual.

Lucy approached the bars between them. “Drop the charges,” she demanded. “You know—”

“I know a lot,” he interrupted. “But these humble police... they know what they saw.” She was at their mercy. “Here.” Flynn slipped a brown paper bag between the bars. Lucy took it and opened it up to see clothes inside, a new dress. “I’m supposed to be collecting your current one as evidence.” Lucy tried to shove the bag back through her cell, but Flynn would not take it. Instead, he turned his back, giving her modesty in which to change.

Lucy looked down at the dress she had on. The knees were stained from kneeling in blood. The sides had five-fingered prints from where she tried to wipe it off her hands. All of it was dried and hard. She stared at Flynn’s back to make certain he had no plans to turn around. He stood still as a statue.

Slowly, Lucy unbuttoned her dress. It was a vulnerability to be bare in the same room as a man who teetered between ally and enemy. It was its own heart-pounding thrill. Every inch of skin tingled, the nerves alive as if his gaze touched her. Lucy watched him the entire time, waiting for a twitch, a shift in posture.

He gave her respectful privacy.

Her hands were clean from the sink in the jail cell, but Lucy used it again to wipe blood off the rest of her. She pulled the new dress over her head.

“You picked this out,” she assumed.

“Why?” Flynn deflected.

“Because it cost more than three dollars.” It was not a dress to wear at a cocktail party, but it was not the modest slip a police officer would have bought for the sake of new clothes.

Again, Flynn did not answer, which was an answer. He bought the dress, and he bought it with her in mind. The sky blue was a pretty color all the way across ornate trim and buttons.

“You done?”

Lucy tied the bow in back, bringing the dress tight against herself for a flattering figure. “Yes.”

Flynn turned back around and took the bag from her once she placed the old dress inside. He tossed it on a desk, uncaring of procedure and due process for a prisoner he knew would never go to court.  
  
“Just in case it needs to be said,” he told her, “you weren’t supposed to be the one I walked in on, hovering over the body like that.”

“Yes,” Lucy replied, “it did need to be said.” He was always trying to get her out of the way. Murder charges were a convenient inconvenience. “So,” she asked, “who was it? Who was it ‘supposed’ to be?”  
  
Flynn hesitated over revealing his plot but in the end determined she could do no harm. “Well,” he said, “the murder was _meant_  to frame Governor Long. I wanted to discredit the bastard and have him arrested.” Flynn took out his gun and flipped it back and forth in his hand so she understood. “Now, I’ll just have to kill him.”  
  
“Huey Long is Rittenhouse?” Lucy questioned. It was not especially surprising given the man’s domineering tactics of threatening and buying votes, of the way he dealt in corruption and bribery, and of his unpleasant intimidation towards political opponents. Yes, he sounded like a member. “He’s going to be assassinated in five more years. You can’t wait that long?”

“Oh, I think he does enough damage between now and 1935.” Long’s time in office was often criticized as a pseudo-dictatorship for all its unprecedented, forceful methods and its avoidance of the democratic process. The hundreds of government employees, perceived as opponents, whom he fired would make their own impact if allowed to continue working. “He also ends up being a, uh, cautionary tale... to other members. They learn to play their hubris a little closer to the vest.” Flynn wanted Rittenhouse to expose itself through arrogance. In historically altered accounts, influential members might stick out more obviously. “But if I take him out now... while he’s on top of the world, bribed his way out of impeachment, just won the senate, well...” He smirked. “Framing him would have worked better, of course, been a little less suspicious, but I’m certain I can make this look like a robbery gone wrong.” It was ridiculous the way he spoke, as if to pacify concerns she did not own. He knew his success meant her failure.

“What am I supposed to do?” Lucy demanded.  
  
“About what?” He played dumb.  
  
“You arrested me!” She rapped her knuckles on iron bars to accentuate her point.  
  
“Personally?” he replied. He inhaled as he thought about it. “I’d have Wyatt start looking for a good lawyer.” He grinned, amused. It would keep her out of his hair for a little while.  
  
“That isn’t funny,” Lucy stated. “None of it is. You know I can’t give them the real suspect.” They would never believe her. She had no asset for negotiations and could make no deal, none except the plea bargain where she went directly to prison.  
  
“Oh, come on, like you’re _really_  in any danger,” Flynn scoffed. “We both know you’ll find a way out of here before they get to arraignment. You won’t even be fed dinner.”  
  
“You _literally_  caught me red-handed,” she argued.  
  
“Circumstantial.”  
  
“They are still hanging people for murder in the 30s,” Lucy told him, “even women.”

“Well then it’s a good thing you won’t be one of them.”

Flynn’s surety put a jail key in her hand, as if Lucy were only waiting for the right moment to use it. His only concern was that Wyatt and Rufus were not locked up beside her. He did not worry over Lucy’s wellbeing.

“I’m going to go now,” Flynn said. “Have some work left to do.” She ruined his first plan. “Find out where the, uh, ‘Dictator of Louisiana’ lives.” He took a step back and turned, possessed with every intention of leaving her there.  
  
“Wait!”  
  
Flynn stopped mid-step and let his shoe scratch the concrete floor.  
  
“Please, wait.”

She bought time, using his patience and tentative fondness for her as currency.  
  
“Flynn,” she asked, “please.” Lucy knew she looked desperate, but she could not care. She did not care. “Wyatt and Rufus don’t know... They don’t know I’ve been arrested.” Unless they chanced reading a newspaper or else overheard gossip, they would not know. “They don’t know I’m here.” She could not contact them. They could not save her.

“Big deal,” Flynn dismissed. “They are a little pointless, aren’t they?”

“No!” Lucy exclaimed. “No, they’re not. I need them.”

“Rufus to pilot the ship,” Flynn conceded. “Wyatt to shoot a gun, maybe. But I think we all... know they need you more.”  
  
Their team worked as a unit, each contributing to their specified role when the others needed them. Flynn gave her too much credit. He claimed too much pride on her behalf.

“You need me,” Lucy asserted. Flynn was a capable man, but even he needed her help sometimes. Even he had inadequacies she filled.

His lips pursed together in annoyance. “Yes,” he admitted. He needed her. He wanted her. He wanted them to work together.

“And I need you.” That was the essence of an equal relationship. He wanted them to be partners. Lucy gave him the responsibility that came with his share. “I need you to help me, to- to save me.”

“You can get yourself out—”

“I can’t!” Lucy heard the hysteric despair in her own voice. “I can’t. I...” She could not pick a lock. She could not charm her way out with the guards. She could not fight them. She would spend weeks incarcerated in the past, and whenever her case went to court, she had no defense. “Please... Flynn.” She asked sincerely, and the conscience he often tried to suppress made his lip twitch. “Please,” she pressed. “You are... You’re my best chance.” Lucy knew she was meant to have enough self-respect that she did not beg an adversary to step up and be her only hope. The obligation was conveniently absent in that moment. Pride fell before self-preservation. She prostrated herself. “Please.”  
  
Flynn seemed disappointed watching her, as if he expected the world from Lucy, a reality of unbroken successes, one after another. The woman pleading for his help fell short. Perhaps she— a human, not a hero— could not do everything. He simply wanted her to.

He left.

“Flynn?”

Each measured step did not break beneath her call.

“Flynn, please,” Lucy repeated.

His footsteps were drowned beneath her cries. The stairs did not hear his tapping soles upon them.

“No, no, no,” she shouted. “Flynn!”

He left her.

Lucy sat back down on the bench and tried not to cry. She had no way out. The walls drew closer in. The bars compacted and pressed against her thigh. Three people in the world knew her, and only one of them knew where she was. He left.

For several moments, Lucy balanced unevenly between panicking and thinking of alternatives that would not come. She was so preoccupied in self-pity, she did not notice the voices until they were already down the stairs.

“Got her to confess,” Flynn told the officer behind him. “Turns out she’s responsible for another murder in Mississippi, so...” He did not have to spell it out. State lines gave him, the FBI agent, jurisdiction over Lucy’s arrest.  
  
But the policeman was unwilling to cooperate. “No,” he said, “no, we’ll try her here first. Then you can have her.”

“There’s no trial,” Flynn argued. “I just told you she confessed.”  
  
“You think I don’t know the law where I work at?”

“I don’t think you could tell your ass from a hole in the ground,” Flynn said, “so the odds you’ve mastered something as complicated as federal law are a little farfetched.” His skill for diplomacy was severely lacking. “Just get the D.A. to draw up whatever damn papers she has to sign.”  
  
It was no surprise that Flynn’s tirade did neither of them any favors.

“No,” the officer denied with a scowl on his face. “Right now, she’s ours after killin’ the governor’s assistant and us not even knowing why yet. You phone down at Mississippi and you tell them she’s in custody. But they waited this long. Few more weeks ain’t gonna hurt ‘em none.”  
  
Flynn licked his lips and surrendered to docility. His high shoulders fell from their ire. “I suppose,” he said, “I will... file papers for extradition.”  
  
“Do whatever you want.” The guard turned his back, dismissing Flynn in a rude display.

“Don’t mind if I do.”

The man never saw it coming when Flynn brought the butt of his pistol down upon his head. Blood stained his hair, but the blow did not appear fatal. He collapsed onto the floor.

Lucy almost yelled at him for the assault but kept chastisements to herself. The entire objective was to free her. Flynn leaned over the unconscious man and unclipped a set of keys from his belt.  
  
“You owe me, Lucy,” he said as he stuck the proper key into the lock. Flynn was as likely to cash in on her debt as he was to put it behind them and forget the event ever happened. Lucy wondered which one the future held. Ungreased hinges screamed when the door swung open. “Out,” Flynn ordered.  
  
Lucy stood out of the way as Flynn dragged the incapacitated policeman into the cell and locked it back. Her first thought was to flee while his back was turned, but it was quickly replaced with the knowledge she might need him to get out of the precinct.  
  
“Shall we?” Flynn gestured at the stairs. Lucy followed close behind.  
  
The late-night hour deserted the station. The one officer they passed did not think anything of the actions of an FBI agent who exercised full-run of the place all day. Flynn and Lucy passed unimpeded, all the way out the door. That was when she tried to make a break for it.

“Ah-ah-ah,” Flynn chastened as he grabbed her arm and squeezed too tight. “I’m afraid, Lucy, you’re coming with me.” He walked her to a car at the end of the block. “Just until this is over.” Lucy knew his plan, and Flynn would not risk her meeting back up with Wyatt and Rufus armed thus.  
  
Flynn led her to the passenger side and made her climb in before he shut the door. Lucy considered running while he walked around the car but knew she would not get far before he caught her. Her high heels were no match for his long legs. She sat with displeasure on her face.  
  
“So simple to get a car in this decade,” Flynn remarked as he got behind the steering wheel. Most vehicles were left unlocked with the keys somewhere in the cabin. The people were too trusting. “Oh, uh... you try anything,” he warned, “anything at all, I’ll say you tried to run.” He threatened the killing of a felon that the law would deem justified. Lucy did not call his bluff, nor did she comment that they would both be wanted now that he assaulted an officer and aided in her escape.  
  
“What is it you think I’m supposed to do?” she muttered.  
  
“I never know,” he said, “not until after it’s already happened.” She frustrated him time and time again.

The car’s motor cranked right up, a violent sound compared against modern engines. Flynn put his arm around the back of Lucy’s seat as he turned to look over his shoulder and back the car out of its space.  
  
“And you know where he lives?” Lucy questioned. Flynn drove as if he had a destination in mind.  
  
“You know,” he said, “people can be very forthcoming with information if you make the right sort of small talk.” The governor’s house was public knowledge but getting it out of someone without raising further questions required subtle tact. Flynn was good at organic conversation. He faked it well, though never with her.  
  
The drive was silent. The drive was slow. Even with such an early-model car, Flynn could have gone much faster than he did. Lucy wondered if he was wasting the time necessary to put Long in his bed for the night or if he was hesitant to carry through at all.  
  
“You don’t have to do this, you know.”  
  
“I know.” Flynn did not need Lucy to tell him that his actions were cruel. They were excessive. “But I will.” They were necessary.

“You think that—”

“Stop talking.” He did not want to hear Lucy try to talk him out of it. His resolve was as fragile as it was strong. She jeopardized his control, Lucy, the only living person Flynn could make himself care about.

The car remained quiet until Flynn put on the brakes, lest he and Lucy repeat themselves in a never-ending dichotomous circle.

“Governor’s mansion,” he said as he brought the car to a stop. He parked them close enough for surveillance but not so close as to be suspicious. “Certainly looks like the bastard’s enjoying his accommodations.”

The mansion was a magnificent display of Georgian architecture painted white, a dated design on a new building. Wide columns supported a large front entrance in old world grandeur.

“It was just finished this year,” Lucy said. “Long tore down the last residence and built this one in its place. Rumors always said he modeled it after the White House, so he could get used to living there when he became president.”

Flynn scoffed. “And you want to protect this ass?”

“He still does good,” Lucy asserted. “He completely streamlines infrastructure, he- he modernizes the state.”

“Their good,” he told her, as the expert, “always has a motive.”

He took out a pair of binoculars. Lucy saw a man survey the front of the house before sitting in a chair.

“Armed guard,” Flynn assumed.

“He employed several in the later years of his career,” she said, “out of fear for his safety.” They were a poor match for Flynn. “What are you going to do?”

Flynn tilted his head as he planned. “Disable the guard,” he said. “Break in through the back door, make it look sloppy. I’ll steal a few things from inside, create a lot of noise when I do. Should bring him down the stairs.” Flynn had no intentions of killing anyone but his target. He would not go upstairs to confront the man in his bedroom. The wife would find her husband’s dying body, but it would be her only pain. “And then, of course, the most important part of the plan first.”

“What’s first?” she hesitated to ask.

Flynn snatched her wrist before Lucy could react. In one quick motion, he slapped a handcuff around her and secured the other end to the steering wheel. “That,” he said. “Just in case you thought your, uh, display in the jail caused me to underestimate you.”

“Bastard.” Lucy pulled on the handcuffs, but it did no good. Each bracelet wrapped around its target so well, the only thing that could undo it was the key.

“Shouldn’t be long,” Flynn assured. He got out of the car and crossed the street at a jogging pace. His black suit blended into the night.

Lucy took the binoculars from the seat and watched him. Flynn incapacitated the bodyguard with all the ease of taking down a mall cop. The attack looked nonlethal. A gunshot would have been too loud. Flynn left the front and began sneaking his way around to the back door.

Lucy dropped the binoculars so she could pull and pull her chain. She squeezed her hand trying to get it through the cuff. She turned the steering wheel back and forth to free herself. It was no use. Then the solution occurred to her, presented as the most obvious action in the world.  
  
She pressed the car horn. She hit it again and then she kept it down in one loud, sustained honk. It took a moment, but lights flashed on throughout the neighborhood, including at the governor’s mansion. The occupants were awake and alert, on guard, and not only Governor Long. Several neighbors poked their heads out of windows or doors. If Flynn caused a commotion at the house, someone might catch him on the exit.  
  
He realized that.

Another minute and Flynn came sprinting back around the side of the house and to its front. He crossed the street. A face of raw fury made Lucy redouble her escape attempt. The handcuff scratched her wrist but went nowhere. When the door opened and slammed shut, Lucy wanted to be anywhere but trapped in a car with him.

“You can save everyone but yourself,” Flynn sneered. “Is that it?” Lucy said nothing. “Is it?!” he yelled.  
  
“I couldn’t let you—”  
  
“Shut up!” He did not want to hear her heroic rhetoric. When Flynn exhaled, it sounded like a growl over a sigh. He pushed a hand through his hair and considered any options moving forward.

The murder in Long’s office and the soon to be discovered assault at his home would put the governor under viable threat. It was too much coincidence. His security detail would amplify. Flynn’s window of assassination closed.  
  
“Damn it!”  
  
His fist struck the steering wheel too close to Lucy’s own hand. His fingers slid down and touched the chain. Flynn was done with her.

He unlocked the handcuff and released Lucy from the wheel. “Get out,” he ordered. It sounded like the first step towards fulfillment of his earlier warning. For her impudence, he would shoot her in an escape attempt.

Except Lucy knew he never would. She knew from the beginning. Flynn’s threats fooled no one but himself and outsiders.

Lucy rubbed her wrist. “And do what?” she said. “It’s... thirty miles back to the _Lifeboat_.”

“Hitchhike.” Flynn did not concern himself with her wellbeing. If Lucy could be an efficient thorn in his side, she could get herself home. “Get out.”

She did not move. “A ride back into town,” she requested. She could make her way from there.

“Why?” he scoffed. “Because you’re just a woman? Funny how you only bring that up when it’s convenient for you, isn’t it, Lucy?” She flinched when he leaned across the seat and over her, but it was only to grab Lucy’s door handle and throw it open. “Get out,” he said again, a quiet snarl. He was very cross with her, a disposition best not deepened with defiance.  
  
Lucy did not want to be in a car with him anyway. She stepped out onto the street and closed the door behind her. She did not hesitate to begin walking back the way they came.

The thought of knocking on someone’s door and asking to use their phone occurred to her, but there was no one on the other end whom she could call. Someone might give her a ride out of decency, but it was late and there was no story she could concoct that would not make someone call the police out of concern for her safety. Unfortunately, Lucy was wanted for murder.

So she walked.

The car engine charged to life behind her. It idled on the street for a moment, indecisive, and when it did finally move into gear, she expected the car to roar past with passive aggressive anger. It did not.

Flynn pulled up beside her and rolled forward at the slow pace of her gait. He rolled down his window. “Get in,” he said without looking at her.

His temper was unpredictable, and his offer was suspicious. Lucy did not want to get back in the car with Flynn only for him to yell at her for several miles and kick her out again. Any obligation he felt towards her could not override such a fresh anger. Lucy made him accept the consequences of his actions, even if she had to accept them as well.

“No,” she refused. She continued on foot.

“Get in the damn car,” he hissed.

“No.”

“Lucy!” He tried to control his frustration. “It can be... dangerous... at night.” He would not say that being a woman made her weaker, but he knew it made her a target. “Get in.”

“No.”

She expected his foot to ram the gas pedal and leave her. It did not. He stayed, moving as Lucy moved, no faster.

Flynn drove beside her for two long miles.

“Your shoes aren’t made for long distances,” he remarked.

“No,” Lucy agreed. Her feet were already killing her. The two-inch heel put her toes at an unfortunate angle. The small bones hurt. The shoes’ trim rubbed her skin raw with threatening blisters.

“So get... in... the car.”

“No.”

“Fine!” Flynn was done begging. He did not have the time or patience to babysit her for another twenty-something miles.

He drove away, and Lucy felt the swift fraying of her safety net. She realized how dark it was. She noticed how irregularly the street lights were placed and how many roads were not paved. She was in darkness and isolation beneath an overcast moon. Every historically relevant account seemed to rush into her brain, reminding of the unfortunate discovery of so many women.

Flynn drove away from Lucy, and she felt the compulsive fear to run after him. She watched the glowing tail lights become smaller and smaller as he made it all the way down the street.

Lucy opened her mouth to scream his name. She never had to.

The red lights turned twice as bright when the brake lights flashed and he stopped the car. Slave to his conscience, Flynn could go no further. He waited for her to catch up.

When Lucy broke even with the car, neither of them said anything. They continued on in a dawdling progress.

Lucy’s feet ached. Flynn looked bored as he leaned his arm on the open window and kept his other hand slung lazily over the steering wheel.

They continued at the same agonizing pace, with minute after minute and yard after yard of stretching road measured by the throbbing in her feet.

“You know this stopped being funny a mile ago,” Flynn stated.

“I don’t think it was ever funny,” Lucy disagreed. It was a little funny at first, listening to him order her into the car with frustrated requests. Sore feet and tired legs ended that a while back.  
  
Flynn pushed ahead of her at the turn and pulled right, cutting Lucy off and forcing her to veer to the side as if she were being shepherded. She accepted the direction and walked down the new road. They rambled on.

“Get in the car,” Flynn urged.  
  
“No.”  
  
“It’s another ten miles just to civilization,” he warned. “Get in.”

“No.”  
  
That was it.

“I give up!” Flynn refused to go on catering to her obstinacy the rest of the night. He would not. “I’m done with this.” His decision was final, and Lucy had every reasonable expectation of being left on the side of the road in the middle of the night. She almost yelled consent to at last cooperate, yelled it before he left her again.

Flynn stopped the car. He put it in park and got out. The door slammed shut with a loud, metal bang.

“It’s yours.” He gave up the vehicle. He surrendered it to Lucy and would make his own way. “Take it. Do whatever the hell you want. I don’t care.”

Flynn had nothing more to say and stomped away from her and the car.

There was no reason not to take it.

Lucy climbed into the driver’s seat and watched from the rearview mirror as Flynn strolled off in the opposite direction. It was possible the _Mothership_  was parked that way. It was equally possible he did not want to go down the same road as her anymore.

The old-model car was difficult to drive, but Lucy managed a U-turn. She leaned out the open window.

“Get in,” she said.

Flynn was perfectly prepared to mirror her actions and be a petty bastard. He opened his mouth to tell her no, but instead he sighed and relented. He walked around and got in the passenger seat.

Lucy turned the car again and put them back the way she had been walking, towards an eventual destination with the _Lifeboat_.

It was a quiet drive, oppressively silent. The loudest sounds were the rattling engine and the gentle wind whipping through windows and blowing their hair. Flynn would have let that inanimate conversation go uninterrupted.

“You were really going to walk all the way back,” Lucy asked, “or were you going to steal another car?”  
  
He did not answer the question. “I don’t have such damn impractical shoes.”  
  
“I like tennis shoes.” They were her personal preference. “But they do _not_  go with the dress.” She tried to laugh, but Flynn did not join in. He rested his cheek in his hand and his elbow on the door. “You were going to leave me in jail under a murder charge,” Lucy said, “but you couldn’t let me walk back alone.” Both were rational fears, but the second was only a possibility while the first was assured. “Why?”

Flynn did not say anything for a moment. When he did, it was quiet and spoken to the windshield. “I take it Wyatt still hasn’t gotten around to discussing the, uh, specifics of his wife’s death.” Flynn remembered the cautionary tale when Lucy did not.

“He has.” It was not a flattering story upon the man’s character.

“Then you know why.” Flynn could not leave her alone on the side of the road. He would not. “Some men are...”

“Wicked,” Lucy muttered.

“Wicked... close-minded imbeciles,” he stated, “who think a woman only has one thing to offer... and that she is always offering it.” He exhaled. “And others are psychopaths.” Some men killed for the thrill with no rape involved. Flynn did not subject Lucy to the risk of either or both. He admitted that, perhaps, she needed saving, just a little. “I am not... looking to repeat Wyatt’s mistake.” Flynn was chivalrous duty wrapped in a feminist’s respect.

“Thank you,” Lucy felt obligated to say.

Flynn shrugged. “Well, I did drive you all the way out here.”

“Mild kidnapping,” she corrected.

“Temporary detainment,” he called it.

Like every time when Lucy offended Flynn or quashed his plans, he was already putting it behind him. He never forgave her for any of it, but he never lingered long in anger. What was the point?

“Gear down,” Flynn told her when they had difficulty taking a hill.  
  
“Right.” Lucy was not recently familiar with driving a manual transmission, but she knew enough to get by. She pressed the clutch and changed gears. “Got it!” she announced. “I got it.” She was proud of herself, but Flynn did not even change facial expressions at her success. He expected her to know what she was doing. “I can’t do everything, you know.” Lucy felt the need to remind him.

“Why not?” Flynn’s standards for her were too high.  
  
“Because I...” She was just one person. “Not every girl knows how to drive stick.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“We just don’t.” Lucy’s father had an old car he gave her when she turned fifteen, when his health began declining all at once. She used to drive in it, and that was the only reason she knew as much as she did.  
  
Flynn licked over his lips and resituated in his seat. “A lot of men don’t actually know either,” he told her as if it were a great secret between genders. “Automatic’s much more standard in the today.”  
  
“You know how.”

“Army,” he explained, one simple word. Whatever he drove during military service taught him. “Oh, but I know,” he muttered, “now you’re going to tell me not a lot of women join the army.”  
  
“Well, they don’t!” Lucy defended.

For Flynn, it was no excuse, no good one. “Growing up,” he murmured, a quiet and treasured gift of a topic, “my mother could do... anything. She did everything.” It was clear he thought the world of her. Even with her eyes on the road and no real evidence to support the impression, Lucy knew. Flynn loved his mother. He respected her. “Married and... pregnant right out of high school. Widowed a few years later. Single mother holding a job— while going to night classes. Losing her child.” He paused on that one, waiting for a lecture about changing the past, a lecture that did not come. “Successful engineer in the 70s. International liaison for a prominent company. I thought she could do anything— I knew.” He almost smiled at her inspiration, but it fell into a frown. “It took me a- a long time to realize that the, uh... the rest of the world didn’t agree.” He hated the world’s opinions, but he could not change them.

“It gets better,” Lucy said, giving him a woman’s perspective on change. “It’s... It’s better.” There was progress yet to come in the present. “Compared to all this, time travel.” Again, she tried to laugh, and this time, Flynn participated in his own way, with a shadowed grin.

“There was a time I thought... I might be an engineer, like her,” he confided in Lucy. “She would take me with her... to work sometimes. I’ve admired Lockman my entire life because of it. So, I just thought...” His smile died short once more.

“What happened?” Lucy asked. “Why didn’t you?”

“Turned eighteen,” he said, pretending it did not bother him, “got drafted for a year of service. Turns out I was good at it. One war led to another war... which led to another war. Sometimes they never seemed to stop. Eventually, I ended up in the private sector, working with the NSA. Life,” he supposed, “got away from me.”

Lucy did not miss the irony, that Flynn wanted to be like his mother but could not, that she did not want to follow her mother but did.

“She sounds amazing,” Lucy said, “your mother.”

“Yes,” he murmured, “she was.” The past tense with which he spoke was heartbreaking.

“I wish I could have met her in 1969, with the... moon landing.”

“Yes,” Flynn said with a half-nod. “Yes, I think, maybe, you would have liked her.”

“I’m not that strong,” Lucy said, knowing that Flynn’s opinion of his mother was passed to all women, like an expectation of greatness. “I can’t do... everything.”

“You will.” That was all he had to say about her lacking confidence. If Lucy could not do something, she would. He had no doubts.

“Is that...” She almost asked if his assertion was supported by the journal, but she kept the question to herself. Lucy was not that woman, but if she would be, she would be, in her own time. “Sometimes,” Lucy said, “a woman will still need a man.”

“In the past maybe,” he granted. History was stacked unfairly against a woman’s favor.

“No.” She shook her head. No matter the time period, Lucy needed the men in her life. She needed Wyatt. She needed Rufus. She needed Flynn. She would not go back to life before them.

“Fair enough.” Flynn dipped his head in the slightest nod. “The truth,” he told her, “the... secret,” he imparted, “a woman might need a man... sometimes.” He met her halfway. “But a man always needs a woman.” He smiled at her, and it held more sincerity than any humor. He was not joking. “For his own good.”

Flynn needed Lucy for her history knowledge. He needed her level head. There was another reason, at least one other, but she could not put her finger on it. He needed her.

“Not yet,” was all Lucy said.

“When?” He was tired of waiting to include her, to count her as ally, partner. He wanted a date. He wanted a timeframe.

“I don’t know.” Lucy could not even give him a promise it would happen, but denying its possibility felt like burying her head in the sand.

Flynn made a noisy inhale and sighed. “Then I’ll wait.” He would return to his post, watching vigilantly for signs of her surrender, acceptance. He would do what he had always done.  
  
“My jou... your...” She did not know how to address it. “The journal,” she questioned, “it doesn’t say when... why?” Lucy wondered after her own breaking point, what would push her to the abandonment of morals, the embracement of Flynn.  
  
“No.” He wanted to know as badly as she did, if not worse. “Just... that it happens.” For him, it would never happen soon enough. “But of course, in the meantime, Lucy, you get to sleep at night knowing you protected the bastards responsible for my family’s deaths.” He resented her peace when he had none.  
  
“To hear you talk,” Lucy said, “one day, neither of us will sleep.” They would do terrible, necessary evils, side by side. “Give me time.” She was not yet prepared to let go of her principles, her sanity. She was not at the point where she had nothing left to lose. “All right?”  
  
Flynn would steal time from her if he could, but in the interim, as a gentleman, he was made to respect Lucy and her free will. “All right.” He would wait. “I’ll be here.”

Lucy did not know if she should feel guilt over leading him on. She was supposed to feel nothing.

When they entered town, Flynn told her to, “Stop,” at the first row of cars they passed.

“I’ll take it from here myself,” he said.

Lucy pulled over to the curb and stopped the car. In a normal relationship, they would say goodbye and good night, be safe. Flynn got out of the car without a word. He looked up and down the line of vehicles, assessing which he wanted most.

“You’re sure you can make it home all right?” Lucy called out the window, mocking which way concern should lean. It made Flynn chuckle, and he tilted his head down at the sidewalk in an attempt to hide it.  
  
“Uh, yes,” he grinned. “Yes, I think I’ll manage.”  
  
Flynn did not return the question. He always knew Lucy could take care of herself.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously I had to take a tangent to talk specifically about Flynn’s feminist origins. You know it’s cause of his mama!
> 
> I also took some liberties about the location of the old governor’s mansion in Louisiana, placing it outside the city. Because of (obvious) reasons. Fight me. I write fics, not geographical accuracies.
> 
> I think I may have slipped more talk and relevance about history into this brief fanfic than the show’s writers put into theirs in the last episode. Hah.


	18. Stranded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: Lucy gets stranded in the past and has to strike a deal with Flynn for a ride back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuing to write in season 1 dynamic. Obviously in this case. Takes place between 1.12 and 1.13.
> 
> Sometimes I think I might build up around a prompt too much, add too much, but also I don’t care. lol. The main theme is still... in there.

“Put it down,” Lucy hissed between clenched teeth, but the man did not— and never would— listen to her.

A rustle of boots on old brittle leaves brought forward the true commander, the one who had control of the situation.

“It’s only Lucy,” Karl told Flynn. Only Lucy, and yet he would not put down his gun.

“‘Only Lucy,’” Flynn repeated, perfectly aware of the fact that there was no such thing. There was nothing insubstantial about the woman. She managed to stop him every time, did she not? She was a formidable opponent.

Flynn snapped his fingers at Karl, telling him to put away his weapon. Even though it was Lucy, a very resourceful human being, it was only Lucy, a woman with no gun of her own.

“And where are Wyatt and Rufus?” he questioned. The vigilant eye he kept circling around them suspected an ambush.

“We got separated,” Lucy said. “I came back to the... _Lifeboat_  like we’re supposed to. It was gone.” She gestured at the wide clearing they stood inside, where it was supposed to be. The horrific sight still struck her pulse with anxiety. “They left a note.” She handed it to Flynn so he could read evidence to her story.

“Lucy,” it read, “Wyatt hurt. Couldn’t wait. Had to jump back. Will come get you soon as possible. Rufus.”

“That was six hours ago,” she told Flynn, six hours since she found the note, longer since they left.

“And your _Lifeboat_  should have charged by now,” he said, finishing the thought.

“Yes.”

Flynn thought about what that meant. Lucy was alone. She was stranded. “You seem to be in need of a ride,” he said with a grin.

Karl was a silent pillar in the background— until he heard something he did not like. “You can’t be serious,” he objected. “Last time you brought her along—”

“Last time,” Flynn interrupted, seeing the events at the Chicago World’s Fair with perfect recollection, “Lucy was... held against her will, just... trying to get away. Weren’t you, Lucy?”

Seeing her cue, knowing the furtherment of any rescue was to agree with Flynn, she nodded. “Yes.” She plotted with Houdini to detain Flynn and knock Karl over the head. It was only to escape. That was the excuse Flynn provided her, not that it was to save Wyatt and Rufus. Lucy could not say that. Selfishness, in that moment, was their leverage against her.

“And she knows,” Flynn continued with arms across his chest and an expression that regarded Lucy with a smirk, “what will happen if she tries that again.” Expectations were obvious. “Don’t you, Lucy?”

Lucy took a deep breath through her nose and tried not to glare. “Yes.”

“If you interfere...” He let the threat hang there, perfectly understood. He would leave her stranded.

“I stay here,” Lucy finished for him. “And what happens if you need me, need this... team that we’re supposed to be?”

Flynn smiled at her, more amusement than intimidation. “Oh, I’ll always know where to find you, won’t I?”

Lucy would remain right there, in that spot, until her own team returned for her, whenever that might be. She would remain in the middle of a wild forest, no food, water, shelter. Already, she was in need of the first two.

She nodded, giving her agreement to be as cooperative as her conscience would allow.

Against any and every better judgment, Flynn believed her, or perhaps he saw the value of keeping her in his sights. “Karl, get the horses,” he commanded. With a disapproving glare, he was obeyed.

Flynn and Lucy stood at the edge of trees in silence. Then, he addressed the elephant in the room.

“I didn’t hurt Wyatt.”

“I never said you did.”

“No,” he agreed. “You just thought it... very, very loudly. That’s all.”

“What are you doing here?” Lucy questioned, an obvious deflection.

Flynn put a finger to his lips, quieting himself, blocking his own secrets from her ears. “I haven’t done it yet, I can tell you that.” He would tell her once it became necessary. “Which means, of course, you will be coming with us first.” Flynn refused to go out of his way escorting her to the _Mothership_.

Hooves clopped on packed dirt as Karl led two horses through the trees, one blond, one brown. Flynn took the reins of the darker steed. With practiced ease and barely any effort, he climbed into the saddle.

Wherever their destination lay, it seemed farther than a walk.

Flynn leaned down and held out his hand to Lucy, offering assistance in getting up behind him. She did not take it. Instead, she looked behind herself at the open ground. It was unwise to travel from their original drop-off point. If Flynn left her, if she were forced to make her way back, it would be a long walk to where the _Lifeboat_  last docked.

“Don’t worry,” he said with a smirk, misinterpreting her hesitation, “I won’t make you ride side-saddle on my account.” The indecency of a woman sitting astride a horse and with her skirt parted did not extend to their era. Her legs would remain covered, and that was all the modesty needed. “Come on.” Flynn extended his hand further out, and after a moment of letting it hover, Lucy grabbed hold. She used it as leverage as she put a foot into the stirrup and pulled herself up behind him.

It was a close fit on the horse’s back, a large animal upon whose hips Lucy tried to keep from sitting. She kept closer to the middle. Flynn scooted as far forward as he could in the saddle, giving Lucy her own space and mitigating any unwanted touching. She would be uncomfortable either way if their journey meant a long trek with her riding bareback.

“Karl?”

A compass was already out and in the man’s hand. He studied it and pointed. “That way.”

The horses started at a gradual pace that was jarring nonetheless, their being a travel method notorious for swinging discomfort. Lucy was not certain what to do with her hands for support, and she tried to balance with them resting on her thighs. That worked well enough— until they hit the first pothole and the horse dipped suddenly. She grabbed Flynn’s coat without a thought. He said nothing until she took her hands away.  
  
“No,” he told her, “better than you falling off, hm?”  
  
Lucy did not put her hands back on him, not until the second bump. She kept them there. It was a long drop to the ground, after all. Flynn’s feet took up the stirrups. He had a saddle. Lucy had no support on the horse’s bare back. She held Flynn. First, she kept the fabric of his coat clenched tight in her fists. As they went, as she became more at ease with the man and even less fond of falling, she moved her hands down, down to his sides with her fingertips just barely grazing his waist. Flynn let Lucy take whatever peace of mind she needed from the unconventional ride.

No one said anything. The loudest sounds were nature and horses. It was oppressive company to keep. It was a long and uncomfortable trip.  
  
“You’re awfully quiet, aren’t you, Lucy?”

She did not say a word, but she did not know why he expected more from her. “I’m thinking,” she murmured.

“Must be pretty serious.” Somehow, he read her mind and all those thoughts. “If Rufus hasn’t returned yet.”  
  
“I’m sure he just wants to make sure Wyatt is all right.” She did not want to say the word ‘stable.’ “Bring back good news.”  
  
“Sure.” Flynn humored her. “And leave you stranded in 18th century woods in the process.” He chuckled once. “Putting you at my mercy of all things.”  
  
“You can stop,” Lucy allowed. “Wyatt and Rufus might not have realized it yet, but... you and I both know you would never knowingly hurt me.” It was why she felt safe asking for his help. That did not mean she was bold enough to disobey and challenge him in his mission. Flynn’s temper always faded, but it was ferocious at its apex. “You like this,” Lucy said, speaking to his shoulder, “don’t you?”  
  
Flynn turned his head to put her in his periphery. He played dumb. “Riding horses? Yes.”  
  
“Saving me,” she stated. “You still like to be a hero, don’t you, a good man?”

His expression fell and then disappeared when he turned his eyes forward again. Flynn did not like it when she humanized him. Where once it was a mark of pride, now, it was his failing. He would strike humanity from his soul if he could, make himself more effective, but a product could never veer so far from its original creation.

Flynn looked at Karl before he answered. The man was a silent companion who liked to look as though he could not hear their conversation— or did not care if he did hear. Lucy was a weakness, and others could judge Flynn for that.

“I might need you,” he excused, “one day.” He tried to sound practical over heroic. “Maybe you’ll stop being so damn stubborn and let it happen.”

“I’m with you now,” Lucy said. He protected her while she assisted him— assisted in no other way than by not combating his plan. She would help this one time, hope that it was not too severe. Because she would never be able to stop future plots if she never left that year.

Thick trees opened around them to the shape of an oval clearing. The very center was free of all but dirt. Stumps of cut trees bordered the edges. Pushed to one side was the product of their sacrifice, a small cabin, not nearly large enough to make a living. Several yards from it, stones built themselves up into a well.  
  
“Homestead?” Flynn questioned, genuinely asking her opinion.  
  
“No,” Lucy answered, “it’s a way station, built by the British during the revolution. Now, it’s abandoned, used by travelers to rest.”  
  
“Perfect,” Flynn smiled. It would suit whatever need he had. He led their horse to the cabin and hopped off, then he held out his hand to support Lucy’s descent. She took it, not wanting to trip off the high horse in her long skirt. He caught her. Lucy reoriented her legs to the ground and straightened out her clothes while Flynn tied up the horse. “Karl,” he called before the other man could dismount.  
  
He rode over, and the two men shared hushed words containing orders inside. Lucy could not make out anything said. With a huff and an irritated look at her, Karl rode back the way they came, leaving Flynn and Lucy alone.

“He doesn’t like you,” Flynn said with a laugh, carrying on as though it were one hilarious joke.

“He doesn’t mind me,” Lucy disagreed, “as long as I’m not free-range.”

Flynn laughed again. “You’re probably right.”

Despite sitting on horseback for several miles, Lucy was grateful for the bench pushed up against the cabin’s front wall. She was tired. It was a stressful day and still far from over.

Flynn pulled the bucket from the well and sampled the water down inside. He spat it out. If it were satisfactory by the standards of the 18th century, it did not meet the ones from a few hundred years later. He took a canteen off the horse and allowed himself a good long drink. He wiped the mouth off and handed it to Lucy. She drank.  
  
“Reviewing your history?” Flynn assumed.

“Hmm?”

“Thousand-mile stare,” he said. “You’re trying to think of who can possibly be here, in the Carolinas, in, uh, 1784.”

“Too obscure,” Lucy replied. It was the middle of nowhere in the middle of no particular year. There was no special event, which meant, in congruence with Flynn’s unintentional slip, they were waiting for a person.

Flynn weighed how much damage it could do if he told her, warned her. He took arrogance from knowing her fare was paid by obedience. “At some point today,” he said, “very soon, a young man will pass this way, traveling from his current home to the town of Salisbury.” It was still not enough information for Lucy to use. “His name is Andrew Jackson,” Flynn told her, “and needless to say, he won’t be making it to Salisbury.” He waited for her inevitable and volatile reaction.  
  
“You can’t do that,” Lucy objected. “Jackson, he- he becomes president.”  
  
Flynn gave her a patronizing look. Obviously, he knew that. “I believe...” From his back pocket, Flynn took out the journal. He flipped through it, looking for a page he once tore out and gave to Lucy, one she returned to him, one he taped back inside. “You were rather outraged to learn about Rittenhouse’s hand in the, uh, Trail of Tears, the ‘Indian Removal Act.’ Well, who do you think signs the damn thing?” he scoffed. She knew. In forty-six years, as President of the United States, Jackson would sign a law that resulted in the relocation and death of thousands.

“It’s too much,” she said. It would change too much. At least when Flynn killed Lincoln, the man was already destined for assassination. “To save the thousands who die...” It was too much.  
  
“And yet you were willing to let me take out David Rittenhouse,” Flynn remarked. If Rittenhouse’s death had managed to change anything, its effect would have been tenfold.  
  
“That was supposed to be the end of it all,” Lucy contended, “one death.” She advocated Flynn’s murder once, but to give him free reign every time was something she could not yet do.

“Yes,” he agreed. It was supposed to end with the death of Rittenhouse— and his son. Flynn stopped himself before they fell back into an argument too easy to have. “Now, it will be with every member from here to the present.” That was the situation with which she left him. “Starting now with Andrew Jackson, on his way to take up an apprenticeship and learn the law. Except, the attorney who instructs him,” Flynn told her, “a Mister Spruce Macay—”

“Rittenhouse.” Lucy did not need to be led by the hand to that conclusion.

Flynn nodded. “Teaches him everything he knows about the law,” he said, “and a few extra items about this newly founded organization still... looking... for members.” Jackson was not Rittenhouse. He would be.  
  
“There’s another way, you know.”

Flynn groaned a sigh and stomped away, knowing she would insist upon another method. He did not want to hear it and did not ask. Lucy volunteered her suggestion.

“Seventeen going on eighteen,” she said, “orphaned and... looking for his place in the world.”

“What about it?” Flynn muttered.

“He’s impressionable,” Lucy told him. “It’s why, according to you, he joins Rittenhouse.”

“And?”

“And,” she explained, “talk to him. Steer him on another path, away from the law and away from politics.”

Flynn chuckled. “And he’s just... supposed to listen to me, a stranger going in the opposite direction?”

“You,” Lucy admitted, “are... very persuasive—” she cleared her throat— “sometimes.”

“Not... enough to sideline some bastard who’s going to have damn presidential aspirations,” he disagreed. Headstrong people always found a way to reach their goal.

“You’re a father,” Lucy argued, but that was not true. Flynn was a father, once, and now she was trying to make him spare a man who would indirectly contribute to his daughter’s death. “Jackson never had one.” His father died in the weeks before his birth. “Talk to him.” Flynn listened to her speak. He regarded her logic. “He’s not Rittenhouse yet,” she defended. “He’s just a boy who gets... taken under the wrong guidance. He hasn’t done anything wrong. You can’t kill him. I know...” She was bold to say, “I know you don’t want to,” but it was the truth. Lucy knew him too well.

Flynn took a deep breath and walked away. He busied himself with putting away their canteen of water and loosening the straps on the horse so it could relax while they waited.

It was five minutes or longer when he stomped back over to Lucy and put a threatening, lecturing finger in her face. “Fine,” he yielded. Truly, he did not want to kill unnecessarily. “We’ll try it your way. But if you act... in any way other than what we’ve agreed—”

“You shoot Jackson and leave me here.” Flynn’s threats, empty or otherwise, had a certain way of growing old very quickly. “I’ve got it by now.”

“Good.” He would most likely remind her again before the end. “Because it would be a real... shame if you chose this hill to die on, Lucy— figuratively speaking.” He would never kill her. He would simply leave her in an unfortunate situation. “Won’t be able to stop me in the future if you never leave here, will you?”

“Rufus will—”

“Come back?” he interrupted. “Who’s to say he wasn’t hurt as well, that that’s not why he hasn’t returned yet?” The cold dread in Lucy’s stomach spread further. “How long does it take Mason to train a new pilot, do you think?”

“I don’t know,” she said through clenched teeth and barely parted lips. It would be a few months at least, a few months stranded in 1784.

“I want to help you,” Flynn promised. He did, even if his help were conditional. “So, help me help you,” he pleaded.  
  
“I won’t say anything to him.” It was a half-truth. If the situation turned, if she could not control it, Lucy would tell Jackson to run. Flynn knew that, but he trusted her regardless.

“No way to know the time,” he told Lucy before she asked. There was no telling when Jackson would ride through. The specificity of such an account could not survive for two hundred years. “Just that it’s today and on this road.” He watched its many turns until it disappeared through the trees.

Lucy hummed in acknowledgement and made herself more comfortable while Flynn chose to pace.  
  
They waited.

It was not long— less than an hour— until the sound of hooves trotted near with a horse close behind. A young man rode towards them, barely old enough to be called more than a boy, but in the era they resided, he was considered a man in his own right. He was tall and long-limbed. A scar scraped up the side of his face, underneath a head of auburn hair. There was a certain pride about him, an air of entitlement or else of great self-respect. In preoccupation with his destination, he almost passed them by without notice.  
  
“Good afternoon,” Flynn heralded with a wave.  
  
“Good afternoon,” returned the boy.  
  
“Last stop for a while,” Flynn warned. “Might want to take advantage.”  
  
He regarded the suggestion and agreed to it. “I will, thank you.” The boy led his horse beside theirs and dismounted.

Flynn made conversation. “We were forced to travel for my work, but I’m afraid the journey has exhausted my wife,” he stated, throwing marital labels upon himself and Lucy with unhesitating improvisation. “All she wants is to get back home.” He did not let her forget what was at stake.

“I’m sure a rest will do her well.”  
  
“Yes.” Flynn smiled. “Tell me,” he implored, “do you happen to have any water on you? I don’t trust what’s in the well there.”  
  
“Of course.” The boy opened the pack on his horse and pulled out a deerskin flask.

Flynn took it from him while maintaining eye contact, forcing an intimacy, a deeper conversation. “Flynn,” he introduced. “And this is my Lucy.”

“Andrew,” the boy returned, “Andrew Jackson.” It was confirmation to a fact that never had much doubt.  
  
“Thank you, Andrew.”

Lucy swallowed from the water given to her. She would not scorn a drink. Even with the one from Flynn’s canteen, she was parched. The entire treatment was fine, and it was warranted acting— until it was taken a step further.  
  
Flynn took a handkerchief from his pocket and poured some water on the folded cloth. Lucy made herself stay perfectly still and in character as he patted at her face. He went over her cheeks and forehead with the cool, damp fabric, refreshing her, playing the concerned and doting husband and playing it well.  
  
“I think it must be the child,” Flynn fabricated, “taking her strength like this.”  
  
Not only did Flynn marry them, but now, Lucy was with child.  
  
When Jackson turned his head, she made Flynn look her in the eye while she glared. There was no apology in the man. It was all part of his strategy. So, Lucy went along with it. She rested her hand over her stomach as though she petted and protected something precious.

Flynn rubbed his handkerchief over her cheek with tender fingers. “Feeling better?” he asked with gentle voice, sounding so unlike his usual self.

“Yes,” Lucy murmured. “Yes, that helps.”

“I have something stronger,” Jackson volunteered, “if you think that will do her good.”  
  
“Please,” Flynn entreated. He and Lucy were mum on the yet unestablished effects of alcohol on pregnant women. Besides, she could use a stiffer drink. “You’re too kind,” Flynn praised when handed a small bottle, “a considerate young man.” Lucy wanted to say that flattering the boy, guilt-tripping him with expectations of character would not dissuade him from something likened to genocide in the future. “Here.” Flynn uncorked the bottle and held it to Lucy’s lips.

“I’ve got it,” she protested. She took the bottle from him and, after wiping off the mouth, sipped on the hard liquor.

Flynn watched over her like the mindful husband and expectant father he pretended to be, but after a few seconds of that, he returned his attentions to the mission. “How old are you, Andrew?” he questioned.

“Eighteen soon, sir.” The boy rounded up his age to make himself sound older and easier to respect.

“You’re about at the age,” Flynn said, “where you... think about your own future, your own family, aren’t you?”

“Not hardly, no,” he disagreed. “I have yet to make the ways in which I may provide.”

“A man with aspirations,” Flynn lauded with a cheap smile. He and Lucy both knew that if Jackson could not be convinced from his path, it ended completely. She put her hand on Flynn’s arm to encourage patience. The man’s shoulders dropped back down to a peaceful posture. “Have you considered your trade yet?”

“Not as yet,” Jackson said, “though I am to meet a man in Salisbury. He has agreed to teach me law.”

“Generous of him,” Flynn commented, “if... that is what you want.”

“Of course.” The legal trade was lucrative and prestigious. “Why would I not?”

“This is a new country,” Flynn replied, “with its own laws still forming. To step your foot in that would be a, uh, hectic undertaking.” He grinned to keep his disposition light and approachable. “My brother is an attorney, and he’s threatened to quit the profession altogether.”

“Yes,” Lucy commented, “Gabriel calls it volatile— in every sense.”

By his face, Flynn did not appreciate Lucy dragging personal information into their ruse; however, she did not appreciate being made pregnant.

“You know, my wife,” he stated, “she knows a good many people on the coast, wealthy tradesmen. I’m sure she could suggest something better for you, something with less stress and less years of commitment in training— but a good future all the same. You know of something, don’t you, dear?”

“Yes, I...” Lucy cleared her throat, buying time as Flynn put her on the spot. “An old family friend,” she suggested, “at the port in Charleston. I know he’s always seeking new hands to help regulate tariffs against British goods, especially after we lost so many able-bodied men in battle.” Jackson’s ears perked up, as Lucy knew they would, as his ingrained hatred of the British dictated they would. “It’s a good trade to learn,” she told him, “advancing quickly and with a bright future. They also oversee the exit migration of loyalists to Canada.” For added measure, she included, “It’s a public service... after what they did to us during the war.” Jackson stared ahead, lost in very serious thought and genuine consideration. The only reservation keeping him grounded was one Lucy then dismissed with the ideals of youth, with knowing there was always tomorrow. “If you change your mind,” she said, “or after service, there are many fine lawyers in Charleston, men other... than the one you’re riding to. You could apprentice with one of them.”  
  
That was all it took. That was all he required to break from a destiny conscripted to Rittenhouse.

“Yes,” Jackson agreed. “Yes, you’re right. Facilitating the exodus of those loyalists, minimizing British profits after all that they have done, it is the smallest duty I can perform for my country, is it not?” He was possessed with and excited by new direction. “To Charleston I shall go.”  
  
“There’s a good man.” Flynn rubbed Jackson’s shoulder in satisfaction, success for them all. “Doing what’s... best for America is all any of us can hope to provide.” He said that for Lucy, knowing she would understand its meaning.

“It feels like fate, does it not?” Jackson considered. “I believe God led us both here for a reason.”  
  
“Yes,” Flynn lied, “I feel the same way.” He grinned at the boy, playing his charade of support so well. “You should go,” he said. “You’ll have a long enough ride to Charleston as it is.”  
  
“Of course,” he agreed. “Will you and your wife manage?”  
  
“Yes,” Flynn said. “Yes, we’ll be fine. Don’t worry about us. I’m sure she’s feeling better already.” He turned to Lucy. “Aren’t you, dear?”  
  
Lucy stood and nodded her head. It was an easy thing to be well after never having been ill. “Much better... darling.” With a single second-guess and the quickest hesitation, Lucy put her hand on Flynn’s arm, a show of adoration. She smiled at him and he smiled back. “Good luck to you, Andrew,” she offered.  
  
“Yes,” Flynn echoed, “good... luck.” The boy did not know how lucky he was.

They watched Jackson ride away to a new and altered future.  
  
“The idea of family, a loving future,” Flynn contemplated, “meant nothing to him.” His tactic lost over Lucy’s. “But hatred...”  
  
“The British held him and his brother Robert captive during the revolution,” Lucy said. “They were abused, starved, made sick. By the time their mother got them out, it was too late for Robert. He died within days of making it home. Jackson carried a hatred towards the British the rest of his life.”

If Flynn knew all of that, he let her finish saying it first.

“Or,” he countered, “we just released a sociopath to a new vocation, terrorizing that port.”

“But not president,” Lucy stated. He would commit great misdeeds on a smaller scale. “Not Rittenhouse.”  
  
Flynn hummed and nodded his head one quick time. “I suppose that’s fair.” He unwrapped his horse’s reins from the post and led it over. “It’s convenient,” he remarked without looking at her, “having a woman, having you... around to run these, uh, cons with. I can see why we make such a great team one day.”  
  
Whether Lucy wanted to admit it or not, they were a good team. Together, they changed history in the most minimal and unnoticed of ways, giving product to substantial impact. And with Wyatt and Rufus in the present when it happened, only they would ever know. It could be their secret. They were a good team, for better or for worse.  
  
“I needed a ride,” Lucy excused, dismissed. “Does that buy passage?”

Flynn clicked his tongue. “I believe it does, yes.”

Before the matter was left behind completely, she felt the need to criticize. “You didn’t have to make me pregnant.”

“You told me to be a father,” he countered.

“I didn’t mean literally.”

“No, I think we’re still a few steps away from literally.” He laughed at his own joke but apologized when Lucy did not share the humor made in harmless fun. “Come on.” Flynn climbed onto their horse and held out his hand for Lucy again. She grabbed it and went up behind him.

The ride was no more comfortable than before. After several minutes of sitting behind him on the horse’s back, of Lucy refusing to hold on to Flynn and then caving to that necessity again, the man broke their newest silence.

Flynn cleared his throat before speaking, being embarrassed by his consideration of the subject. “If you’re hungry,” he said, “there’s some provisions in the saddlebag there.” Lucy was starving, and they both knew it, just as they knew she would never ask. He had to offer.

In the saddlebag behind Flynn’s thigh, there was a pack of crackers, peanut butter, protein bars, and a few small cans of processed meats. Anything else required heat to make it taste edible. It was everything expected to be seen in military rations, with some of it being stamped with that very label.

“It’s reckless,” Lucy criticized, “bringing modern amenities to the past like this.” The rations were less hazardous than a gun, but the people would not understand the packaging if they saw it.

“Feel free to put my recklessness back where you found it,” Flynn replied, “if you prefer it that way.” He would not let her be hypocritical, condemn him for packing the food but then enjoying the benefits.  
  
Lucy ate without comment.  
  
She nibbled on some crackers and managed to eat a can of meat without dropping it or the fork she found. She drank the water Flynn told her she could finish. When she was done, out of consideration, Lucy opened one of the protein bars and passed it forward to Flynn. He ate it as they rode, obviously hungry as well.  
  
“Thank you,” Lucy said, “for not killing Jackson.” He did not have to spare him, but she knew how much that alternative relieved them both.  
  
“Shh!” Flynn hissed, suddenly acting very offended by the act— or else not wanting to hear her gratitude spoken aloud. He kept riding forward, looking around them for some sort of sign.  
  
Flynn whistled a loud and piercing note, and at its end, after a few seconds, Karl pulled his horse out of the trees.  
  
“He was second string,” Lucy assumed.  
  
“In case Jackson got past us and came this way,” Flynn confirmed.  
  
Karl climbed on his horse. “Is he dead?” he asked Flynn. He waited for his suspicions to be proven, that Lucy stopped him or else talked him out of it. That was what she did, all she did.  
  
“Did you see the little bastard ride by?” Flynn replied with a scowl. He misled the man on purpose, and he trusted Lucy to keep the secret to herself so he did not lose face. She did not know if Flynn’s men were devoted through loyalty or paid off with money, but to make him look weak jeopardized their allegiance either way.  
  
Lucy revealed nothing of what happened.  
  
During the last stretch back to the _Mothership_ , Karl did not say that their side would be better off leaving Lucy there, in the woods, in 1784. He was not that stupid. He did think it very loudly.

They made a wide berth around the _Lifeboat’s_  last anchorage, and Flynn sent Karl to check it out. The description returned to them, however, was of a vacant target. The team— or even Rufus— had not returned. Flynn did not take the opportunity to make Lucy’s outlook worse. He did not say for a second time that Rufus could be injured as well. He did not want to worry her.

“Looks like you’re coming with us after all,” he said. It was one less matter to give her stress. Lucy was guaranteed a ride home.

It was dark at journey’s end. Lucy was not surprised by the flashlight Flynn pulled out of his bag, the technology existing outside of time. She held it on the path while he managed the horse.  
  
The _Mothership_  door was open, and dim florescent light was the first sight to break through trees. When they got close, Flynn helped Lucy off the horse. He and Karl removed their modern gear, tossed the saddles and bridles to the ground, and released the horses into the wild— or into someone else’s ownership, should the tame beasts be found. There was no telling whom they belonged to originally.  
  
Flynn gave Lucy a hand up so she could climb into the _Mothership_. It was such a difference to the last time, when he kidnapped her in 1780, when he passed her, kicking and screaming, to Karl on the inside. Now, it was one graceful step up and another into the machine while he waited on the ground, making certain she managed with her short legs and long skirt. Flynn came in behind her.  
  
“Anthony,” Lucy greeted. The man never could look her in the eye, not even now.

“You took her again?” Anthony demanded.  
  
“No, not this time,” Flynn told him. “This time she’s here because your pal Rufus left her behind. She needed a ride.” For once, they got to be the good guys. He patted Anthony on the shoulder. “Fire it up.”  
  
“You must be Emma,” Lucy said, seeing the red-haired woman at the console beside Anthony, the one who sized her up with an appraising look. Whatever she thought of Lucy, it did not seem especially positive.

“I am.” That was all Emma had to say.

“Training exercise,” Flynn called their mission. He had two pilots now, and soon they would both be familiar with the _Mothership_.

Emma did not trust Lucy’s presence. Karl did not like her being there. He resented Lucy and every weakness she stood for, but he strapped in on the other side of the _Mothership_  without a word.

Lucy sat in the seat next to Flynn, just as she had both times prior, but where before it was as a prisoner he kept close, now it was because she wanted to be at his side over anyone else’s in the vessel. She trusted him.

“I’m guessing she tried to stop you first,” Emma commented.

“No, she helped us,” Flynn replied, and he did not want any more questions about what happened. “Pilot the ship.”  
  
Lucy buckled herself in with relative ease compared to the _Lifeboat_  straps. The jump was quick, efficient, and barely made her stomach lurch.  
  
When the door opened, it was the middle of the day and sun shone in.

Flynn jumped out and pushed the stairs over for everyone else. No one got in the way of Lucy stepping off first. She did not know if they were patronizing her for having special status or if they did not want to cross Flynn by making her go last. Either way, she used her privilege.

Flynn did not wait around for his team to disembark. Lucy watched him sprint across the open warehouse and to a collapsible table holding two computers. Folders and books littered the surface around them. He checked historical accounts and their alteration.

Lucy came behind Flynn to look over his shoulder. It was not necessary. He read the article aloud.

“John C. Calhoun,” he informed with an aggressive growl, “ _our seventh president_ , proponent for slavery and the removal of Native Americans from their ancestral land in what would become known as the _goddamn_  Trail of Tears.” In a fit of rage, Flynn raked his arm across the desk, tossing everything but the computer itself. He felt better for the destruction.  
  
Together, the two of them changed something moderately sized— a president— and yet nothing significant.  
  
“Jackson,” Lucy inferred, “he was only ever a mouthpiece for them, for... Rittenhouse. They found someone else to do what they said, made Calhoun president instead of vice-president. You can’t...” Lucy cut herself short before saying Flynn could not stop them. In this instance, perhaps not, but in general, against Rittenhouse as a whole, there was no one better for the job. “Thank you,” she said instead, “for bringing me home.”

“Go home,” Flynn ordered, because she was not there yet. The present was when she belonged, but his base was not the where. He would not tolerate Lucy implying her journey was complete— with him.

Lucy inhaled and nodded. She would leave. She had no plan of how, but she would. She stepped away from him.

“Wait.” Flynn stopped her. Lucy stayed where she stood. On the computer, Flynn opened various programs with scrolling white text on a black background. His long fingers typed commands at an enviable pace. “There.” He stood and gave Lucy the chair. “Sit. Call whoever. Let them know you’re in the present.” Otherwise, they would jump back in search of her.

“Is that not better,” Lucy questioned, “for you? Letting them run around out there for days?”

Flynn scoffed and shook his head. “You’re not a prisoner,” he said. “I have no intention of keeping you here for days, Lucy. They’ll get the message eventually, won’t they? This one’s untraceable.” He pulled the chair further out to make a point. “Sit.”

Lucy obeyed. She sat in the chair and scooted closer to the desk. As she typed in the telephone number at Jiya’s desk, Lucy tried to ignore Flynn looming behind her, watching her.

The line rang and was picked up. “Yeah?”

“Jiya,” Lucy greeted, “hi.” She took a breath to procrastinate her explanation, saying that Flynn rescued her.

“Lucy?” Jiya exclaimed. “How are you— Rufus was just about to go back and—”

“Well, now he doesn’t have to.” Lucy closed her eyes and bit the bullet. “Flynn... brought me home.”

“Flynn?”

“Who said Flynn?” demanded a voice in the background of Mason Industries. “Flynn’s on the phone?”

“No, Lucy’s on the phone,” Jiya said, “and she’s with Flynn.”

“Somebody get a trace on that—”

“It’s untraceable,” Lucy said, informing Jiya so they could halt wasted effort. “Look, I’m here, and I’m fine. I’m not a prisoner. Flynn just... gave me a ride back.” She tried to look at the man from the corner of her eye, but all she caught was the elbow of his crossed arms.

“He gave you—”

“How’s Wyatt?” The subject weighed on Lucy’s mind, and it was a welcome alternative. “Is he... Is he all right?”

“Last we heard,” Jiya told her. “He just got out of surgery. Rufus didn’t want to leave him.”

“Surgery?”

“We’ll talk about it when you get back.” Lucy could hear the kind, reassuring smile spread into her voice. “Oh, uh— Agent Christopher wants to...”

“Lucy?” the woman called as she took control of the phone and asserted practicality. “Where are you? Do you see anything, any sort of landmark or—”

The call ended. Flynn took his finger off the keyboard and the command key.

“I think they got the message,” he said as he stood up straight.

Lucy turned around in the chair. “Now what?” she asked. Flynn would not hold her, but that did not mean he would call her a taxi either.

“Now,” he considered, “we get you some of Emma’s clothes so you can change.” Wherever Flynn released her, an 18th century bodice and skirt would not be the dress code.

Flynn got her a comfortable outfit, knowing Lucy would want it after the costume she wore. He changed clothes while she did, and when Lucy came out of the bathroom, Flynn was dressed in jeans and a black shirt with a leather jacket on top. He twirled a set of keys around his finger.  
  
“I believe... I’m supposed to blindfold you for this part.”

“What does that mean?” Lucy responded. She did not like the sound of it, as if he worked under orders not his own, especially not for the purpose of blindfolding her.  
  
“Nothing,” he dismissed. “But I won’t have you leading them back here either. I just found this place, Lucy, and I’m not ready to move again.” He held up a bandana that he folded in half and then again, all the way down until it made a long strip. “Turn around.” It was the condition for letting her go.  
  
Lucy obeyed. She put her back to Flynn and held still as he put the cloth over her eyes and tied it behind her head, careful not to put her hair in the knot. His long fingers worked delicately, avoiding all touch unless required. Lucy felt them graze strands of her hair.

“Come on,” he murmured. “I’ll drive you home.” Flynn grabbed her gently around the arm and led Lucy to a car. He helped her inside.

They drove for a long while. The radio played on low volume to cut back on total silence. Lucy tried to keep track of the turns, but Flynn took too many. Eventually, she understood it was intentional. He kept her disoriented to location. It was not outlandish to think he drove in circles or even through some parking lot. The whole act was insulting, but Lucy did not remove the blindfold or complain. He saved her, and she owed him that small debt.

The SUV stopped and Flynn turned off the engine.

“You can take it off now,” he permitted.

Lucy pulled the blindfold from her eyes and saw that they were parked at a large service station with a restaurant for truckers built into one side. It was an inconspicuous place to leave her.

Flynn raised up enough to reach into his pants pocket and take out his wallet. He gave Lucy a fifty-dollar bill. “Buy yourself a burner phone,” he instructed. Then he grinned. “And a snack.”

Lucy folded the money and held it in her hand. She did not get out of the vehicle. “This was too easy,” she murmured.

Flynn’s hand dragged down the side of the steering wheel. “What,” he scoffed, “you think it’s supposed to be some sort of trap?” The assertion offended him. He had nothing to gain from going out of his way like he did, for her. It was an inconvenience.

“No.” Lucy shook her head. “No, that’s not...” She did not know how to explain herself. “Why was this so easy?”

Flynn had her. She walked right to him of her own volition. She worked with him to change the past. She came back to the present in an unknown place with adversaries who could easily keep her there with them.

“One day,” Flynn foretold, “you _will_  come with me, Lucy. We will work together.” That day, if it could happen, was too far away by his liking. It was too close for Lucy. “See, I don’t... have to keep you locked up to make that happen.” He was certain of her surrender. “All I have to do is... wait.” That was how he could let her go.

“If you love something, set it free,” Lucy muttered under her breath. If she came back, she would belong to Flynn, and he would belong to her— forever. If not, they were never meant to be, and they were both free from predestined fate.

“You could stay now,” Flynn tempted, saying it as though he knew some small part of her wanted it. “Together... we can do great things, Lucy.”

They already had. They erased an entire presidency. They could do more. They could do everything. They could change the world together.

Flynn’s hand did not touch hers, but it hovered between them like it wanted. He pulled away. “Stay with me, Lucy.” His tone was soft and so entreating. Flynn made it sound easy for Lucy to abandon her life and her morals, so easy, too easy. He made it the simple choice, simpler than going back, simpler than fighting him without end. She could stay, and they would stop Rittenhouse side by side. It would all stop.

Lucy got out of the car.

She believed in fate, but she did not believe in the journal.

“Goodbye, Lucy.” The words caught her before she could slam the door. He acted so cordial, an obvious side effect of knowing they would meet again.

“Goodbye, Flynn.”

Lucy bought herself a phone, a drink, and a bag of chips. She called for a rescue.

Flynn drove away.

_“Wyatt was mistaken for game and shot by two hunters. Rufus couldn’t leave him in the present without knowing if he would be all right. Wyatt recovered quickly, and when he did, after almost losing his life, he did not hesitate in his plan to get Jessica back anymore._

_“It was the second great change Flynn and I attempted on history. We worked well together, just like every time before and after, but this one was different. We were alone. The acting had touches and phrases that made me lose myself in them, in him, like it was natural. It was what we were supposed to do._

_“His mission failed, but it was the first time he didn’t blame me for it. I never felt unsafe. Flynn took me home. He was kind without wanting anything in return. He blindfolded me for the car ride from his base, which I thought was offensive until they interrogated me. After that, I was grateful for plausible deniability, not that I ever thanked him for it.”_

Flynn closed the journal. Context, he contemplated, made the situation tangible and yet surreal. At the time, in 1784, he was only able to guess at Lucy’s thoughts and opinions. It was not until he returned to the present that the entry came to him. He remembered the details and applied them.

“‘Kind without wanting anything in return,’” he read aloud. He never thought to ask for something. Lucy had nothing he wanted but cooperation. She gave him a piece of it, willingly. He did not mind doing small, necessary tasks for her in return. It had to contribute to something between them. It could never mean nothing.

Flynn knew the last line of the entry by heart. He did not have to open the book to remember how it ended.

_“Recorded in relevance as the first time I considered staying with Flynn.”_

He grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been so distracted by Timeless lately that I’ve had difficulty writing Timeless fanfiction. lol.
> 
> Disclaimer: No, I do not like Andrew Jackson. Awful man. imo, no one who begat the Trail of Tears deserves mercy. But somehow this was where I landed when I said I wanted to set this fic in the woods. I assure you, despite what they changed, he still went on to be a horrible person. Just not Rittenhouse or president.


	19. Hurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: Lucy gets hurt and Flynn takes care of her. Bonus points if he helps her get out of a corset.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Season 1 setting. Again~
> 
> This is the mirror to chapter 9 where Flynn was injured. Now, Lucy is hurt and he’s saving her.

His gun startled Lucy, even after the warning, but it was necessary to shoot the lock and open the door.

“Almost there,” he promised. “Almost there, Lucy.” Flynn carried her inside.

The clinic was of recent construction and wired with the new electric lighting, courtesy of the alternating current. Flynn managed to find the button with his elbow. Early 20th century supplies shone in the room with all their outdated technology. It was better than nothing. It would serve for a temporary fix.

“The _Mothership_ —” Flynn closed the door with his foot— “is three miles away.” Even after returning to the present, it was a thirty-minute drive from his base to the nearest hospital. “I’ll get you to it as soon as we can.”

Lucy’s scream had devolved into labored panting, and yet Flynn could not get the initial cry out of his ears, how it reverberated off brick alley walls, how it filled him with icy dread.

“Wyatt and- and- and Rufus...”

“I don’t... give a damn about Wyatt and Rufus.” Hunting them down to alert them of Lucy’s condition did not register as a priority, big or small. He did not care if they wandered around 1902 for days looking for her. Flynn would patch her up, and then he would take her home in the _Mothership_.

Lucy found she could not prioritize Wyatt and Rufus either. She had her own pressing concern. “It hurts. Flynn, it- it hurts.” She was not complaining. She was not crying. Lucy stated the obvious out of shock.

“I know it does, Lucy.” He had been where she was, numerous times. “I’m going to fix you, all right?”

“You’re not a doctor.”

No, he was not, though he knew enough about battlefield first aid. He knew enough to be her greatest chance at the moment. “Do you trust me?”

“No!” she exclaimed, and she hated that regardless of professional experience or trust, Flynn was her doctor that evening. She did not want him. She had him.

Flynn cleared an impractical bed made more for the purpose of sleeping and placed Lucy upon it. He laid her out and had difficulty making himself look at the red stain beneath her bosom, off-center and dragging to her left side.

Flynn took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He washed his hands twice and let the running water drown out her heaving breaths.

“Don’t move,” he instructed, knowing she had no such intentions but making certain she did not try. Flynn’s hands hesitated at the border of propriety and necessity before he began unbuttoning her blouse.

Lucy scrunched her eyes shut at the humiliation, but she did not object. She did not complain. She understood that he worked with practical motives and nothing more. He picked her off the bed just high enough to get her arms out of the sleeves and finish removing the top. Lucy was grateful when he let her back down.

There was another layer in his way.

Flynn did not want to remove the corset. It kept even pressure on the wound. As soon as he released that, Lucy’s bleeding worsened.

He could not help her if she kept it on.

“Come here,” he encouraged. “Come here, Lucy. Lean on me.” He helped her sit up and lay against his chest. “That’s it,” he spoke into her ear. “That’s it. Just lean on me.” Flynn took his knife and ran it up her back, through the tight laces of her corset. They fell apart and relieved the pressure.

“Ah!” she cried. Her fingers dug and scratched into his arms.

“Shh, shh, shh,” Flynn whispered. “Let me put you down.” He pulled the corset away and tossed it on the floor. Blood flooded the front of her cream-colored chemise. “Damn it.” Flynn put his knife into the cloth hole and cut a larger opening over the wound. He pressed a roll of bandages against it to slow the bleeding.

One second to catch his breath, to fret, before putting away concern and choosing levelheaded action. One second.

“Hold this.” Flynn moved her hand over the bandages. “Press down hard.” She obeyed, finding strength in service to her own preservation.

The supplies Flynn rooted through, if he could call them that, were archaic, unsanitized. He let them soak in a basin of alcohol.

Flynn licked his lips with apprehension and tried to resist pacing. He could not look at Lucy. He did not want to know if she was watching him, waiting for him.

He gave just a few seconds for the needle, thread, and scissors to boil. They were clean enough. He let them dry on a towel.

The silk thread, he knew, could be a problem. If left in for very long, those sutures might become infected. A hospital would have to replace it with synthetic string. Everything he did was only temporary, Flynn told himself. All he had to do was keep her stable for the hospital.

Somehow, Lucy managed to make a joke as he threaded the thick needle.

“You sew?”

“What,” Flynn returned, “you think I, uh, steal all these costumes or order them on the internet?” He did, but suggesting otherwise got her to smile.

Flynn rested his hand over Lucy’s and gave permission to let go. He pulled back the compress.

The cloth was red. Blood trickled from the wound but did not gush. He took a moment to inspect what the naked eye and probing fingers could tell him.

The assailant’s knife dug in but did not penetrate deep past skin and muscle. Most damage came from how far down it pulled after the initial stabbing. There was a long slash, six inches or more by his estimate, no less.

“Hit the rib,” he informed her. It was a blessing. “Didn’t go much deeper.” The knife struck between two bones but did not penetrate through to her internal organs, or if it did, it was only a scratch and not a lethal puncture. “Bleeding pretty bad.” It was a lot. The sheer amount made him question a diagnosis that tried to remain hopeful. “I should get a doctor.” Even a physician dealing in hundred-year-old practices was a benefit in some ways, a patch in the gaps of Flynn’s knowledge.

“It’s fine,” Lucy objected. “I’m- I’m fine. Just don’t...” She did not want Flynn to drag a doctor into the situation.

“Damn it,” he sighed. He knew why. “I won’t kill him.”

“You can’t promise that,” she argued, and she was right. It was an empty, pending promise. Some people could not stop themselves from asking too many questions, and her condition begged for several.

“You need a doctor.” She needed a modern hospital and a CT machine to scan for internal damage.

“No.” Lucy would not allow it, and she would not cooperate if Flynn went against her decision. “I have you,” she stated. “You do it.”

“All right.” He respected her wishes. He would respect them— until he felt the situation slip away from him. If that moment came, Lucy had no say. He would save her. She could be angry with him later. “All right, Lucy.”

Flynn pressed the bandages back down to absorb some of the blood. It would not stop.

“Gonna have to suture it,” he warned. He prepared for such a step while hoping it would not come. It was necessary.

Lucy nodded her head and took deep breaths in and out her puckered lips. She was ready for it, or she thought she was.

Flynn grabbed a cloth and doubled it over a few times. “Here.” He pressed it to her mouth. “Bite down on this.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he exhaled, an unpleasant explanation, “I need to stitch the wound, Lucy. Local anesthetic is _barely_  invented, and I don’t want to put you under with ether.” He did not know the proper dosage for someone her size and would not risk it.

“Then think of something,” Lucy hissed.

“I did.” He moved the cloth back to her mouth. “Bite.”

If he had a better option, he would give it to her, gladly. He did not.

One last sob of pain and self-pity and Lucy opened her mouth. She knew it would get worse before it got better. She was right about that. Of course she was. When was she ever wrong?

Flynn pressed on the gash one more time before letting up on bandage and pressure. Blood began flowing down. He started at the bottom without a second’s hesitation. He pierced Lucy’s skin with the overly thick needle, in one side and through to the other.

She yelped out of shock and impulse but tried to stay still and keep quiet after that. She tried to look strong.

“It doesn’t matter,” he told her. “I don’t care if you cry, Lucy.” Flynn gave permission she wanted nothing to do with.

“Mm-mm,” she refused. Her eyes closed tight and she turned her head away from him, to hide her shame or else to distance herself as much as possible from the pain.

Flynn did not tell her again to let go. No one could tell Lucy Preston what to do.

He worked quick as possible. The stitches were as few and far apart as he could leave them, just enough to close the skin and keep it closed. Flynn kept his free hand wiping away that seeping blood so he could see.

Lucy powered through. Every sound she made was unintentional.

“Do yourself a favor,” Flynn urged. “Pass out from the damn shock already.” Most people were weak— virgin stabbing victims especially— but of course not his girl, not Lucy.

She shook her head even as she whimpered around the cloth in her mouth. Either she did not trust him or she did not want to die unconscious. Lucy was determined to stay awake until the last minute.

Flynn pierced her skin and pulled it together in another row of stitches. Lucy took it with only the barest cry.

“Doing good,” Flynn said, giving that deserved praise, helping her get through it. “Halfway there, Lucy.” He stabbed her again with the needle. He brought it through her abdomen and pulled. “Halfway there.” Flynn tried to minimize scarring by tying the skin as close as possible. She had beautiful, unblemished skin. Not like his. Lucy was not a soldier or an agent. This was not her life. It would be. It began with this one scar.

Flynn worked quickly but did not let himself rush. He would not perform anything other than the safest, most efficient patch job. And then he would take her home.

“That’s it,” he announced with the last suture pulled. “That’s it, Lucy. All done. All done.” He pulled the thread through and stuck the silk between itself to make a knot, to keep her held together. Flynn cut excess string with the scissors. “I’m done,” he promised in a soft voice. “I’m finished, Lucy.”

She was grateful to hear that. Lucy nodded her head and opened her mouth. The spit-soaked, tooth-indented cloth fell onto the pillow beside her. She was tired, worn out by tense exertion.

Flynn grabbed a new length of bandages and folded them over. He pressed the clean compress to her dammed injury. It was not difficult for Flynn to get his arm under Lucy, to wrap three rotations of cloth around her and tie it tight, hold all of his work in place.

He fixed her, and yet, to his concern, Lucy was not saved.

Her face was pale and bloodless, an imminent death in waiting. Stemming the flow of blood was not enough. She lost too much before it stopped. They were both covered in it. Flynn’s fingers stuck together as the blood on them dried. His wet shirt stuck to his abdomen.

“What’s your blood type, Lucy?” She did not answer. He shouted the question and it startled her.

“A!” she told him. “Type A.”

“Positive or negative?”

“Positive... A positive.”

“Good.” Flynn rolled his sleeve further up his arm. He used his teeth to tie a tourniquet. “I’m O positive,” he said, “which means I can do this.”

Flynn flexed his fist until a good vein presented inside his elbow. He stuck his arm with a thick, antiquated needle he sterilized. Immediately, blood filled the rubber tubing at its end and dripped into a glass canister. He pushed a second needle into Lucy’s arm and vein.

That was it. That was the last proactive action Flynn had left. He could do nothing more for Lucy.

A chair scraped as he hooked it with his foot and pulled it across the floor. Flynn sat at Lucy’s bedside and failed to pretend the outcome did not affect him. He showed his hand, and now they both knew he cared. They knew he would not let anything happen to her. Flynn would worry over the disadvantage he gave his opponent tomorrow. Today, tonight, her health was all that mattered.

Flynn opened and closed his fist to stimulate blood flow when it slowed.

“You really need to stop following me like you do,” he lectured, and for once, it was not due to a selfish motivation.

Lucy had a real knack for always finding him, always picking him out of a crowd, and no evasive maneuvers managed to shake her. Fear was selective when she swallowed it, ignored it. The absence allowed her to follow Flynn down a dark and narrow alley, a brick hallway where the rats outnumbered people and the windows closed on cries for help.

“Or you could have at least...” She could have run away, and she should have.

Any money the mugger wanted from them was readily forfeit. Lucy’s jewelry held no importance; it was his if he demanded it. But not everything was inconsequential.

“I couldn’t let him take your phone,” she murmured, “or your watch, or...” Or his ring. Lucy protected the past from technology. She protected Flynn’s wedding band from being stolen.

Flynn bowed his head. “I was going to handle it,” he whispered. She knew that. She never doubted it.

“And I couldn’t let you kill him.” Even if the man was a thief and a scoundrel, his descendants might not be. That was why she put herself between the two men. She had to. Every life in the past was exponential.

Flynn cursed her stubborn, foolish bravery. “Big deal!” he sneered. She was more important. One man or a dozen of his offspring could not hold a candle to Lucy and what she would accomplish. The future needed her. Flynn needed her.

Lucy closed her eyes. She lacked the strength to hold them open. She lacked the will to argue. She was so tired, too tired. “I’m scared,” she confessed.

Flynn turned his gaze from her. He could not confront the emotions Lucy gave him, confided in him. He did not want to face how it affected him. “Nothing is...” He cleared his throat when his voice was not loud enough. “Nothing is going to happen to you, Lucy.” He knew.

“Flynn, please, I...” As much as she wanted baseless assurances, she did not want them.

But Flynn had proof.

“You do not die here, Lucy.” His white shirt and hands were tacky with her blood. “Do you hear me? Do you understand? You do _not_  die here.” Flynn was afraid, but he was not worried. “You know how I know?”

“Because you really are a- a doctor?” she hoped.

“No,” he said. “I know because you are going to give me this.” He pulled out the journal and showed it to her. He made her look at it. “You have to give me this or else none of what we’ve done can happen, none of this is real.”

“It’s real,” Lucy moaned. Her pain was very real.

“It’s real,” Flynn agreed. “This journal is real. And you are going to write it.” He was confident when she was not. “Say it,” he commanded. “Tell me you’re going to write it.”

“I don’t know,” she cried. Lucy did not want to write the journal. She wanted to pretend free will. She defied their future when Flynn was trying to secure one for her. “I don’t... know.”

“Write the damn thing,” Flynn growled, “and give it to me.” He forced his temper to level, knowing she did not need it, knowing it would not help. “Live... and do this for me, Lucy. Do this... for me. Save me.” Lucy would find him at his lowest point and give him hope where he had none. She would give them their greatest advantage against Rittenhouse. She had to. “You have to save me.”

Lucy laughed but it sounded desperate and spent. “You were supposed to be saving me,” she said. “You’re- You... I don’t want to...” Lucy did not want to write the journal. “Please,” she begged. She wanted another promise for her health. “Please, Flynn.”

He had nothing better for her. He was not a doctor. There was no expert medical opinion. “No,” he denied. “Write the journal, Lucy.”

Tears formed in her eyes and fell when she closed them. She nodded her head as they trailed down the sides of her face. “Okay,” she whispered. “Okay, Flynn.” Lucy would write the journal. She would live, and she would write it for him.

She would live for him.

“Okay. Yes... I’ll do it.”

Flynn closed his eyes and exhaled his relief. Lucy was going to live. She had work to do. She was going to live, and the journal was proof.

He pushed hair from her face and out of her eyes. The skin beneath his hand was cold but living, sustaining. Flynn rubbed her cheek as if he could share his warmth as he did his blood. Lucy did not pull away. She did not recoil at his touch or suspect its violence. She trusted him. For that night, for their limited engagement, Lucy thought the best of him. She forgot the horrors he could beget. For her, for Lucy, there was only gentle, soothing intentions.

“Nothing is going to happen to you,” Flynn repeated. He saved her.

Flynn kept the transfusion going until future planning made him stop. He still had to carry Lucy to the _Mothership_  and he could not do that dizzy and weak, though he wondered if he could find and steal a horse along the way.

He removed the needle from his own arm but did not bother covering the large hole until he saw to Lucy. Drops of blood trickled from the puncture and down his arm as he did his best to put everything from the container into her. He stood and held it high so gravity made it flow.

Flynn bandaged her arm first. He wrapped his own with more difficulty. Despite his intentions, he was tired and vaguely lightheaded. A horse would be necessary. He sat back down to recover some strength.

It was quiet between them. It was still. The great excitement wore down.

Lucy reached for him, desperately flexing her fingers to grab him, hold him there, keep him there. Flynn offered his hand, and Lucy took it. They joined in that space, her small hand in his. Lucy held tight as she could, as if she could restrain him.

“Flynn?”

“Hm?”

“You won’t leave?” Lucy was terrified he would abandon her in that isolated clinic suite. She feared he would run off and kill someone while she was powerless to stop it.

“No, I’m...” He squeezed her hand. He rubbed the back of it with his thumb. “I’m right here, Lucy.” Flynn’s entire mission was forfeit, and he let it go for her. It was never one of his better plots in the first place, too low impact, the mere torture and information extraction from a low-level member. He let it go. “I’m right here.”

“Thank you... Thank you.” Lucy held on long enough to hear his promise and drifted off at its end. After clinging to consciousness for nearly an hour and letting it exhaust her, she gave in. She slept.

Flynn held her hand in one of his. With the other, he brushed through her hair, a gentle touch that would not pull. “I’m right here.”

Lucy wanted him to stay with her, but she did not want to stay with him. She would not stay with him. They were not partners.

“I’m here.” He waited for her.

Lucy woke in a hospital. Modern doctors told her she was lucky to be alive after a man dropped her off in the emergency room. Police were looking for him. They would not find him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this before the season 2 finale but let me say. That tender scene with Flynn holding Lucy was all the inspiration needed to keep going. I was writing him so kind and sweet here, but I was like “Yeah?” Then finale and I was like “Yeah!” Dang straight he can act like this towards Lucy, especially when he’s worried about her.


	20. Assassin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: “They were going to kill her. Maria Thompkins.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Established relationship AU of episode 1x15! In which Lucy is secretly dating Flynn, and the team did not have a conveniently timed plan already set in place to steal the Lifeboat when this mission happened.
> 
> Honestly, having a flipped episode where Flynn had to stop the team from changing history would have been interesting. Ah, missed opportunities.

They were going to kill her, Maria Thompkins, kill her and count every repercussion in time as collateral damage.  
  
Flynn would disappear from history without a trace. His daughter, his half-brother Gabriel, all gone. No one would ever know they existed. Lucy would be one of the select few to carry their memory, just like with Amy. And at the forefront of their horrific domino effect was the killing of an innocent teenage girl.  
  
Lucy opened her locker at Mason Industries with sheer automatic impulse, muscle memory. Control slipped from her as she confronted the choice between cold-blooded murder and treason. One moment of overwhelm, one powerless sob she choked down, and Lucy pulled out her phone. She scrolled through contacts as she huddled close inside her locker, as if it could hide her. She tapped the mislabeled name of Professor Ben Tallmadge.  
  
“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” Lucy whispered into her phone.  
  
The line clicked. “Lucy,” Flynn responded on the other end.  
  
“I’m sorry. Agent Neville’s bedside manner leaves something to be desired.”  
  
Lucy heard her father’s voice, and in a moment of panic, she hung up the phone and tossed it into her locker.  
  
She busied herself by taking off her coat, using it to hide the twitch of trembling fingers. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you’re here,” she said. Rittenhouse abandoned their silence in the time machine project. They all but announced their presence.  
  
“You have to understand,” her father urged, “Flynn is out of control.”  
  
Flynn was a danger to Rittenhouse, and those were the words Lucy threw back at the man. She did not want to hear anything he had to say. He knew that, and so he mentioned the one word close to her heart: Amy. He promised Lucy he would do everything in his substantial power to bring back her sister. All she had to do was let Rittenhouse kill Maria Thompkins and erase Flynn.  
  
Facilitate murder of one, allow the complete erasure of three, that was all she had to do. That was it.  
  
Lucy made her next attempt at a call in the ladies’ room. She locked the door and lowered the lid of the toilet to sit on.  
  
“You gonna hang up on me again?” were the first words out of Flynn’s mouth.  
  
“Bastard.”  
  
After a beat of silence, he asked, “Why this time?”  
  
“Taking on Rittenhouse,” she condemned. “Fighting this- this stupid war. Making yourself a target.”  
  
Flynn sighed and it blew into her ear over the speaker. “This line, Lucy, was meant for emergencies or...” Or if they wanted to meet up.  
  
“They’re going to kill you,” she blurted out, keeping his attention. “That enough of an emergency for you?”  
  
“My, uh...” He did not want to say the word ‘headquarters’ or ‘base.’ “Unless they’re tracing this call, I’m hidden.” Even if they raided his hideout, he would escape in the _Mothership_  before they got in.  
  
“No, not... in the present,” she told him. “The mission... it’s your mother, Maria Thompkins. Sam Houston High School, 1962, when she was just a student, a- a junior there. To erase you, they are going to _kill_  her.”  
  
With that vital information, Flynn’s interest was bought and paid for. He thought about what it meant. He knew what it meant. He took a deep inhale as he processed the atrocity. “You see?” he hissed into the phone. “You see how despicable they are, what they’ll do, how far they’ll go?”  
  
“Yes.” Flynn thought Lucy kept her eyes closed to Rittenhouse’s evil, but she remembered every example she learned and how low they could sink. She knew. She wanted to fight them, but she was not Flynn. She could not. “It’s why I’m calling you,” she said. “If I don’t go, if I run interference, they’ll...”  
  
Flynn knew exactly what they would do. “Not exactly fun, is it,” he said, “being branded for treason?”  
  
“No.” Rittenhouse was grafted so deeply into America that action against one was deemed sedition to the other. That was how Flynn became a terrorist, all because he defied them, fought them. “Follow us,” Lucy instructed. “Drop whatever trip you had planned. Save your mother and yourself.”  
  
He would, of course. His pause on the other end of the line was only from the consideration he put into planning around those moving parts. Lucy could almost see him rubbing the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb. “I’ll need an hour to, uh, gather my team, get some clothes.”  
  
“I’ll dress slow.” It was the most inconspicuous way she could think of to buy him time. “Flynn. The soldier,” Lucy gave him one last piece of information, “it’s not Wyatt.” She let him know that familiarity or any sort of previous understanding would not save him. A faceless, disciplined order was sent to be Maria’s assassin.  
  
“Not Wyatt.” He understood. “Do you have anything more than 1962 for me? I need a date to tell Emma.”  
  
“May 3,” Lucy told him, “Houston, Texas.”  
  
“All right.” His shoes tapped and echoed on concrete inside a wide, open building. “I suppose I’ll see you there.”  
  
“Flynn.” She got his attention before he hung up the phone. “Don’t kill anyone.”  
  
The petition irritated him, though he had to know it was coming. “You realize that telling me to be the better man over these bastards is a low bar,” he replied.  
  
“You are the better man.” Lucy knew he was. She gave him the chance to prove it.  
  
“Yes,” he agreed, “and in being the better man, I will defend my...” He inhaled. “I will save my mother, Lucy.” Flynn would do whatever it took. Lucy knew that. She knew it the moment she called him. She knew the risks. “But I will... try... to act only as necessary.” Lucy knew his violence as she knew he was a good man at heart. She knew him.  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
So many calls between them ended in awkward silence. It was effortless to carry a conversation. Saying, “Goodbye,” at the end of one was complex, however, despite it being a simplicity demonstrated by toddlers. Everything was natural between them, everything but convention.  
  
“1962 then,” Lucy concluded, giving him the date again, confirming it and using it as her signoff.  
  
“I’ll see you there.”  
  
Flynn hung up first. He had more work to do and less time to do it. To help in any way she could, Lucy dressed more formally than she otherwise would have for the era. She took time on hair and makeup, and she found a very proper green outfit with a skirt, hat, and gloves. She overdressed, and that could not be denied, especially for Texas in May; however, she managed to buy Flynn his hour.

When neither the computers of mission control nor the _Lifeboat’s_  CPU announced the _Mothership_  already jumped, Lucy hoped Flynn was only trying to keep everything inconspicuous, for her sake. He would leave after they did, she hoped.  
  
Sergeant Major Caleb Sullivan did not handle time travel well. In fact, it sickened him, worse than Wyatt. Pacing around the _Lifeboat_  as he swallowed his nausea bought Flynn more time to save his mother, but it did not last forever.  
  
“Which way?” he asked Lucy.  
  
She could not oppose giving directions from the map she held. “We need a car,” she stated. “We’re several miles outside of town.”  
  
“Then I’ll get us a car.” Sullivan left the two of them behind to do exactly that.

They waited. Rufus was nervous, and he did a far worse job hiding it than Lucy. He took her composure as confidence, a plan.  
  
“Lucy,” he asked, needing her answer, “how far are we letting this go?”

Rufus was no fan of Flynn’s by any measure, but Rittenhouse’s plot was not something he could abide. They saved lives, and Maria’s was innocent. But Lucy could not comfort him with the explanation of her methods, with insight into why there was no reason to worry too greatly.  
  
“It’s not happening,” she told him.  
  
However, when their stolen car came within a few streets of Sam Houston High School, Lucy’s confidence waned. There was no sign of Flynn, and she wondered if she bought enough time after all. Rufus looked to her once more for reassurance, but this time, Lucy had nothing to give.  
  
They parked two streets over to remain discreet.  
  
“Wait here,” Sullivan commanded. Rufus and Lucy got him to the school, to the door. The rest of the mission was his and his alone. He took out his gun and double-checked its operation before getting out of the car. He left to kill Maria.  
  
Lucy and Rufus did not wait there. She got out as soon as the soldier would not notice.  
  
“Lucy,” Rufus asked, pleaded, as he followed, “I would _really_  like to know the plan here already.”  
  
“I’m... working on it,” she replied as they made stealthy progress around a small convenience store. They held position at its brick corner. Lucy watched Sullivan’s path to the school and its midday classes. He jogged across the street with ironclad determination, and her heart pumped blood to her ears, a deafening thump that made her anxious and lightheaded. She did not know what to do. She did not know!  
  
Lucy felt a firm object press into her back. Rufus stiffened at her side as he experienced the same. Presence established, the guns withdrew but were not put away. “Turn around slowly,” came instructions.  
  
She raised up her hands and Rufus did the same. They turned to see Flynn and Karl each with a gun on them.  
  
“Lucy,” Flynn greeted with a smirk. His hand was on the gun, but, as Lucy observed, his finger was not on the trigger. He gave a harmless act.  
  
“Flynn?” Rufus exclaimed. “How— I don’t... No, but you’re...” No one answered his barely begun questions. “Yeah, no, the uh... The- The- The CPUs, the _Lifeboat_  and the _Mothership_ , are linked,” he attempted to explain on his own, coming up with threads of logic from the limited facts he knew. Of course Flynn tailed them, just as they always tailed him. “Wait, then... why didn’t you follow us to 1983?”  
  
“You think I can go to 1983?” Flynn feigned flattery, as if Rufus claimed he looked so young. “1962, though...” He grinned. “Your team certainly has been busy making these little trips on your own.” Flynn took casual steps forward until he was too far into Lucy’s personal space. She had to look up to see his face. “What are you doing here, Lucy?” Out of consideration, he remained dedicated to keeping their cover, even when he could expose her with one sentence. Lucy did not answer. There was a truth and he knew it already. Saying it for him was redundant. Saying it in front of Rufus looked suicidal. “Nothing historically relevant about the here and the now,” Flynn continued, answering himself. “No one... significant— except!” He tapped a finger to his lips, clearly enjoying the impromptu play he acted. “They’re panicking, aren’t they?” Flynn took great satisfaction from knowing he made Rittenhouse sweat. They hated him, feared him. Perhaps they even regretted the monster they created.  
  
“Okay, _how_  did you figure that out so fast?” Rufus questioned. “We just...” He did not understand.  
  
“Oh, I got here about, hm, four hours before you did,” Flynn explained. Against their surprised expressions, he chuckled. “What, you never thought about jumping ahead to before I landed, getting the drop on me? I’m disappointed, Lucy.”  
  
“No!” Rufus fought. “No. There are rules. You can’t—”  
  
“I know,” Flynn waved it off. “Travel in real time, isn’t that the obligation? You know... I _think_  I’ll find a way to deal with being a few hours older than I’m supposed to be in the present. We’ll all be different ages from one another. We’re all at different points in time right now, and the fabric of reality tears just a little bit after all your... poking at it. So what? Big deal. Certainly beats being erased from time completely, doesn’t it?”

“What have you been doing?” Lucy demanded. Even when she helped him, Flynn was intent on playing outside the rules. Four hours was intentional. The thought concerned her.

He smiled, and it was positively devious. “Let’s watch.” He pointed across the road and to the school. They all four turned to view the show.

Karl kept his gun at the ready, but Flynn put his in the holster under his jacket. There was no viable threat from Rufus. There was no threat at all from Lucy, the woman who brought Flynn there to save himself and his mother.

They watched.

Sullivan passed through the chain-link fence surrounding the school. He went no further.  
  
Their spectating group was too far away to hear the police shout at Sullivan, but with their guns drawn, the soldier adhered to their strict demands. He raised his hands and stood still as one cop patted him down. They found his weapon. Lucy could not hear what words followed, but she imagined it was the announcement that he was under arrest. Handcuffs were brought out.  
  
“What the hell?” Rufus remarked as he leaned back from the spectacle. Karl still had a gun on him, but he barely paid it any mind.  
  
“What did you do?” Lucy questioned. Flynn did not kill Sullivan, as asked, but he managed to set a trap for the man. Lucy waited for his explanation.  
  
“Called in a tip to the police,” Flynn told them. “‘I saw a man,’” he recounted. “‘He was waving a gun around with his friends, said he was going to, “Make that little bitch pay.”’ All I had to do after that was tell them to keep watch at the high school. They’d find him with the weapon on school grounds. Didn’t even have to lift a finger.” He was smug over his resourceful resolution.  
  
“Lucy,” Rufus got her attention. “Lucy, Lucy, they are— Yep, they’re arresting him. Putting him in the squad car. Great.”

“Funny, isn’t it?” Flynn commented. He rocked forward on the balls of his feet with his hands casually in his pockets. “Usually, you’d be here to stop me changing time, but for today...”  
  
“Today you had our soldier arrested,” Lucy muttered. Flynn did not understand the situation he put them in. Rufus tapped her on the shoulder, but she was perfectly aware of Sullivan locked in the back of the police car. Short of jumping in front of it, she could not stop the proceedings.  
  
“Lucy, we cannot go back without that asshat,” Rufus stated. They were already on thin ice, and failure coupled with the arrest of their tactical commander revisited the threatened charges of aiding and abetting. The lone grace to save them was knowing Rittenhouse still needed their expertise, and that was temporary.  
  
It did not mean they wanted to go through all the trouble of springing the man.  
  
“I could just kill him,” Flynn suggested, “if that makes everything neater for you. Like your last guy... in 1927. What was his name?”  
  
“You know his name,” Lucy said. She did not doubt Flynn remembered.  
  
“So now... Wyatt’s completely out of the picture, is that it?” He was not heartbroken over the development.

“Wyatt is...” Flynn did not need the explanation, did not need to know that Wyatt was in hiding after escaping custody, that he was planning their own retaliation against Rittenhouse. “Wyatt isn’t here right now,” Lucy told him.  
  
“Gathered that,” Flynn replied. He accepted her answer for the moment but would attempt to get the rest of the story out of her later. “So we done here?” He had no qualms over parting ways now that the past— and his mother— was preserved.

“No!” Rufus shouted. “We have to break that guy out of jail thanks to you.”

Flynn regarded the pilot for a moment before conceding. “Karl,” he ordered, “take... Rufus and ask where they can pick up their man.”

Karl was not overly thrilled, but he obeyed with a scoff. He put his gun away but surrendered no authority as he ordered Rufus to follow him with a nod. They crossed the road to catch the police officers before they drove away.

By design, it left Lucy alone with Flynn.

“Shall we?” he suggested. He extended his hand, indicating Lucy walk forward.

“To where?”

Flynn smiled, bright and fond. “To see her.”

He led them away from Rufus, Karl, and the police and around the back of the school. Lucy curiously followed.

“There should be...” Flynn faded off as he spoke and continued in broken pauses. “A student parking lot around this corner... I believe.” He knew it from a second-hand account, because his mother told him. Flynn peeked around the corner and grinned. Lucy looked over him. There was a parking lot of cars, the older, less expensive models teenagers typically drove; a few newer ones were peppered into the rows. Flynn glanced for one he expected to see. “That one,” he pointed out to her. He put a hand on Lucy’s shoulder and brought her forward, in front of him, so she could see it. At the end of Flynn’s finger was an old Buick colored in a red-orange paint. “That’s his car. Has to be his car.”

“Whose car?” Lucy questioned, but Flynn did not bother answering. The owner was not overly important. Only the passenger mattered.

Flynn checked his watch. “Bell should be ringing soon,” he said. “Few more minutes.” He did not remove his hand from Lucy’s shoulder. His fingers massaged through her woolen jacket while they waited.  
  
The school bell rang. Classes ended for the day, and students poured from the doors. Lucy searched the crowd, looking for Maria, trying to pick her out.  
  
“She always,” Flynn told her, “she said she always loitered around the back door with her friends before they left.” Maria was personable and charming, much like her son.  
  
When the mass of students dwindled down, Flynn found her. Maria leaned against the banister going down the steps, no more than thirty feet from them. She was young and happy, and a teenage boy put his arm around her shoulders as they socialized. Flynn watched the girl make conversation and have fun with her friends. He enjoyed it. He smiled at it without a single guard in place. Lucy felt truly gifted Flynn chose to share the moment with her. He let himself be vulnerable and divulge a weakness.  
  
“She’s very beautiful,” Lucy said to the man lost in awe.  
  
“Yes,” he agreed. “And more, uh, carefree... than I’ve ever seen her.” Flynn watched the casual smiles she gave, the laughter she let ring. He memorized them. A seventeen-year-old girl lived a life of happiness, and now she could continue it. “There are... difficulties ahead for her,” Flynn stated. “And she can never be the same as this, can she?”

“No.” Lucy knew that even though Flynn would save her first-born son in seven years, Maria’s first husband still had to die. “You can’t help her any more, Flynn,” she cautioned. If Gabriel’s father lived, Maria would never remarry to Asher Flynn. Through mercy and nonviolence, through tactics that would never occur to Rittenhouse, by saving a life instead of destroying one, Flynn would never be born. “You can’t protect her from everything.”

He wanted to.

“No.” Flynn nodded his head. He watched his mother’s every step until she got into a car with her boyfriend and future husband. She drove away, oblivious to the fate which almost befell her. She went on with her life, unknowing of what was in store. “No, of course.”

Maria’s husband had to die. Flynn had to live.

Lucy reached for him and let her fingers trail down Flynn’s arm, a gentle stroke, a reassurance that everything would be all right. His mother was strong enough to get through it. She always had. She always would. Flynn accepted the tender touch.  
  
“We can meet... later,” Lucy proposed, “if you have the time.”  
  
Flynn reached into his pocket and retrieved a folded piece of paper he passed to her. There was an address already written down.  
  
“Presumptuous,” she muttered.

“Prepared. Just waiting to see if you suggested it,” he grinned. “Remember—”

“Drive to the university,” she said, “wander around, pretend I have a meeting. Then lose whatever tail is following me and take a cab.” Flynn drilled his paranoia into her. Lucy was only glad he did not insist on more steps. She knew he could, but he kept it relatively simple for her.

Flynn was proud of her for remembering those precautions and content to know she would comply, that she would not lead agents to him, incidentally or otherwise. “You know,” he said with a smirk, “you, uh, lost our little wager... over Charles Lindbergh.” He researched the change to history just as she did. Charles chose fame and Rittenhouse over what was right.  
  
“I know.”

“Good thing we didn’t put any money on it, don’t you think?”  
  
“Is it good?” she replied. It left the line open for Flynn to claim whatever he wanted as reward. “What do you want?”  
  
“Oh, don’t say it like that,” he huffed.  
  
“Like what?”

“Like,” he asserted, “you expect me to tell you to sit out the next mission.” Flynn played offended that she could ever assume the worst of him, as if it were an unsubstantiated threat. “I’ll let you off easy,” he promised— easy, though not without imbursement. Flynn’s voice turned into a low and rumbling whisper, the sensual tone he knew made her weak in the knees. “How about...” His hand traced up Lucy’s back and pulled her nearer. “A kiss goodbye, maybe?”

Lucy pushed him away. “Not in public,” she refused. It was one of her unbreakable rules. “Besides after I... saved your life, I would think we’re even.”

“You did that because you wanted,” Flynn claimed, “not as payment.” He did not cross a line he placed there himself. He portrayed Lucy’s choice in the matter as a whim and avoided the assertion that she cared for him. Any assumption he ever made on her motivations were always negative ones. “Is it payment?” He backed Lucy into a corner. She could nullify the sense of debt there and then. All she had to do was admit she did not save him out of compassion and caring. She had to let her effort stand as impersonal payment, a debt on Flynn’s part, now wiped out with the one he held for her.  
  
She could not.  
  
Lucy looked at the ground and cleared her throat. “One kiss?” she questioned. It would clear her from the bet they waged. It would let her need to save him stand without selfish motivation.

Flynn’s smirk spread wide. He was the very picture of a cat with his canary. “One kiss,” he confirmed. With a shrug, he added, “Until later, of course.”

“Later,” she conceded. In private, they could do whatever they wanted as many times as they chose. “Okay.” Lucy picked up her arms and let them slap back down against her sides. “Goodbye,” she said, as it was to be their goodbye kiss.

“Goodbye, Lucy,” he replied, soft and affectionate. Flynn’s hand traveled along her back and pressed into it, pulling her close, bringing her in. She went to him. “Goodbye,” he whispered.

“Good... goodbye,” Lucy murmured. His eyes were so green in the bright sunlight.

“Goodbye.” Flynn’s lips smiled when he pressed them to hers.

They kissed, and it was so natural, so pleasant, as if they were always meant to, as if the world had to burn before they could.

Lucy began to close her eyes and lose herself when she glimpsed Rufus in her periphery. “Mm!” She pushed against Flynn’s chest, but when he did not let up, she took it a step further. She pulled away and slapped him. “Let go!”  
  
Flynn rolled his tongue against the inside of his stinging cheek. He let his arm drop from Lucy’s back and she stepped away.

Rufus came quicker when he saw signs of an altercation. He jogged that last distance, and he put himself chivalrously at Lucy’s side, shoulder to shoulder against Flynn.

“You okay?” Rufus asked her. He gave Lucy concern and Flynn cold offense through a glare.  
  
“I’m fine,” Lucy stated. “I’m fine. Just...” She had nothing to say except that Rufus keep it between them. The request would be suspicious, so she did not ask it. She knew he would retain her privacy regardless. “Let’s just go, okay?”

Rufus, however, felt his anger towards Flynn stoked. “So we save this bastard’s life and let him go, let him keep doing whatever the hell he wants?” he demanded. “How is that not on us?” Rufus had a point. Because Flynn’s life was saved, he could continue on his mission against Rittenhouse with all of its collateral damage, and they paved the way for him to do that. They had a hand in every blame from there on out. They aided and abetted a terrorist. “He killed Anthony!” Rufus shouted.  
  
“What,” Flynn goaded, “scared to be without your safety net?” For so long, Anthony was all that stood between Flynn and Rufus. He was gone now.  
  
“He was my friend!” Rufus charged forward but stopped quick.  
  
Flynn pulled his gun ahead of any poorly conceived, ill-advised decisions.  
  
“No,” Lucy exclaimed, stopping Flynn from trying anything. She stepped between the two men, making herself the shield Flynn would never shoot.  
  
He smirked. “Don’t worry, Lucy. You know I’d take you back with me,” he said, “in the _Mothership_.”  
  
“Leave,” she demanded.  
  
“We could end this,” he suggested, “end the chase of back and forth, back and forth. Change history just a _few more_  times.”

“Leave,” she repeated. Lucy would call in her favor if need be, force Flynn to pay her for saving his life. She did not want to, but she would, to spare Rufus.

“I have a good lead now,” Flynn pleaded, “courtesy of one Julian Charvet.” He was desperate to end it all, end it without interference, and Lucy understood, just as he understood she would never approve of his methods. She would never allow Flynn to shoot Rufus.  
  
“Garcia.”

Lucy said nothing more, but nothing more was required. His name was a stern warning that stood alone.

Flynn let his gun hold position a moment longer, then he withdrew while flicking on the safety. He held up the weapon to demonstrate its harmlessness and stuck it in the holster. He would not shoot Rufus in front of Lucy. He could not let her watch that.  
  
“We’ll call this one a draw,” he said. They knew Rufus’s safety was no guarantee, only a stay of execution. Flynn took a step back. “Goodbye, Lucy.” He ignored Rufus.

Lucy did not reply, and Flynn knew she was mad at him. The feeling would not last. It never did.

He left them alone.

“Lucy,” Rufus was hesitant to ask, “what the hell was that?” He was perceptive, but even a blind man could see something abnormal in her interaction with Flynn. It was not how enemies behaved. It was not the submission a villain exhibited. It was not a kiss that should have happened.

Lucy did not want to answer. “Things changed,” she said, “in Chicago, in 1893—”

“When he kidnapped you,” the man stated, reminding her.

“Yes.” Lucy accepted the truthful description.

“And you... what?” Rufus pressed. “You discovered Flynn’s first name is his kryptonite or something?”

“We talked.” Somehow, Lucy managed to make monumental progress sound insignificant, an event that happened and nothing more. “We...” She walked on eggshells and chose her words carefully. “We understand each other,” she said as if in plea for her own understanding. “Now, I know he won’t... He won’t hurt me.”

Rufus scoffed. “Well, I am so glad you have that guarantee. Meanwhile, the rest of us—”

“He won’t hurt me,” Lucy reiterated, and Rufus understood a little better.

Both physically and emotionally, Flynn would not hurt her. There was a good chance he would find his loophole, but for the time being, Lucy knew Flynn would not kill her friend in front of her, not by his own hand. That mercy would remain until such a time that he felt desperate, backed into a corner.

“Can we just...” Lucy was tired. “Can we go home?” She did not want to talk about Flynn anymore. She did not want Rufus to pull on that string until he asked outright why Flynn kissed her.

Rufus recognized her exhaustion and hesitancy. Perhaps he shared it. He did not ask about the kiss. He did not want the answer. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Let’s... get Sullivan and get the hell out of here. I’m about to die in this heat.” He loosened his tie and the first button of his shirt.

They managed to bail out Sergeant Major Sullivan with all the money they brought with them. Lucy was forced to defend that all the police truly had him on was trespassing on school grounds while carrying a weapon. His alias was expected back in court at the end of the month.  
  
Sullivan said nothing, not a thank you for liberating him, not an apology for the way he pushed past them and out the door. Lucy and Rufus followed.

“Wait,” Lucy demanded when he turned right instead of left. “Wait, wait. Where are you going? The _Lifeboat_  is this way.” She pointed in the opposite direction their soldier headed.

“We have orders,” Sullivan reminded them. They were there for one purpose, and it was not to walk away in a draw. “Command briefed me on the target’s home address.” He insisted on that backup plan.

“No, you- you- you,” Rufus stammered. Both sides separated in mercy. To go back on that was unpredictable. “If you keep trying to do that, Flynn—”

“Garcia Flynn must be eliminated,” he stated, reminding them. “That’s the mission.” The mission was Maria, but his methods evaded his own judgment.

“You can’t,” Lucy argued, but she had no rationale on how to convince him. She had no idea how to stop him a second time. She tried to think of one that would not land her in a prison for ten to fifteen years.  
  
Sullivan walked away from them with square shoulders, a firm step, and unwavering determination. He made it to the corner of the sidewalk. The four-way-stop was uncongested, and no cars came by until one did. It rolled up to the stop sign, and from its open window, two bullets fired directly into the soldier’s chest. He fell.  
  
“Oh, my god!” Lucy cried. She did not move until the car was gone, speeding away down the street— though she knew no danger would come from it and unto her.  
  
Sullivan was still as the grave by the time they went to him. Rufus checked his pulse and reported that it quickly faded. With the amount of blood issuing onto the pavement, the man was not long for that world. Whether by Flynn or Karl’s hand, Sullivan was shot directly in the heart and lung. There was nothing that could save him.

“We have to go,” Lucy stated.

“But, he—”

“Rufus,” she reasoned, “we are outside... a police station, and they _know_  we were with him.” It was cruel; however, “We have to go.”

“Yeah.” She was right, of course. “Yeah.” Rufus climbed to his feet. They ran to the car, and Rufus drove as Lucy tried to process what happened.  
  
Karl heard where Sullivan was taken after his arrest, just as Rufus did. Trying to catch him at the high school was too high profile with too many variables. An arrest, however, took him to one location and brought him back out. The conclusion of Flynn's four-hour plan was that he could never spare a man who came under orders to kill his mother, orders that persisted until one party was dead. He chose the appropriate sacrifice.  
  
Maria had to live. Flynn had to live.  
  
Lucy and Rufus fled the scene and the year. When they returned to Mason Industries, their interrogation was unpleasant and incredibly skeptical. They lost two soldiers in a row, and this one was even more conspicuous. Accusations were not brought up or charged, but they were implied. The ice was thin, however Rittenhouse still needed Lucy and Rufus. They were untouchable so long as Garcia Flynn was out there, surviving as a viable threat.

Lucy wanted to put the day behind her. She wanted to go home and go to bed as badly as she wanted company. She chose company, company with Flynn, as they planned.

When they met at his chosen hotel, they said nothing of the altercation with Rufus upon which their last meeting ended. They never brought up work. It was the only way to keep their little boat floating on turbulent waters. Nothing was personal, so they did not let it be personal.

They almost said nothing about the day at all.

“Thank you,” Flynn murmured into her hair, “for saving me, Lucy.” It was the biggest step she ever displayed in their relationship, a simple concern for his life she considered obvious. Lucy did not realize until that moment how Flynn might have held doubts she cared. “Or for saving my mother, preserving the past, whatever the hell you want to call it.” He could not let her consideration for him live long before he discredited it.

It was all three, if she were honest. Lucy spoke one third of the truth while knowing the others remained understood. “Saving you.” It was the only motive that mattered where they were, how they were, wrapped in each other’s arms, bodies pressed tight against clothes they never removed. Sometimes, they did not have to. Oftentimes, it was not the point at all.

They were together, and no one would take them away from each other.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t mind me as I play the very fitting ‘Never Tear Us Apart’ cover by St Vincent after that last line. A Garcy song if ever there were one. Although spoiler alert: Agent Denise Christopher will take them away from each other at the end of the following episode. But shh.
> 
> Realizing I have now put a Garcy spin on episodes 15 and 16. In enough time, I will go through the entire series. lol. jk. Although 1x07 is in desperate need of an update.
> 
> Wanted to end mission part after Flynn/Rufus showdown, but I knew I still had to address Sullivan. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have killed him. But obviously Flynn had to stop a man whose job it was to eliminate his mother.
> 
> One last thing: I know they ended up in Chicago in March for 1x15, but Lucy/Rufus originally wearing what they did to Texas? In May. What? You would die.


End file.
